It's Not Easy Being Green
by Kohlii
Summary: "The orcs of Middle-Earth do not have the code of honor that you Orsimer are so fond of. You would do well to remember that, my daughter. Man and mer alike will fear you, even hunt you for your green skin. Take care in whom you trust, and be strong." Pre-quest, canon-divergent, no romance.
1. Snowstorm

The world had devolved into a howling tapestry of white and black. Cold crystals coated the dark eyelashes of a muscular womer on an equally solid gelding. She pulled a snow-crusted scarf further up on her face and pressed herself closer to her sturdy black steed, running a gloved hand over his powerful shoulders. "Just a little further, Ven." Her voice was a deep, scratchy tenor, all traces of feminity lost in the muffling facescarf. Ahkmar felt the muscles in Venrukaan's neck bunch beneath her palm before he leapt forward with renewed vigor.

Sitting up, the young Orsimer narrowed her eyes to peer through the blinding whiteness. Snowstorms were common in the mountain passes of Skyrim, where the freezing temperatures of the ancestral homeland of the Nords were amplified by the coupling of altitude and strong winds. Caves however, both natural and carved, were equally as common. Pale blue slits glowed from behind mossy green eyelids as they found what they sought. "This way, Ven." Ahkmar kneed her gelding towards the dark gaping mouth in the side of the mountain. Icicles grew thickly from the top, reminding Ahkmar of a dragon's fangs. Shaking her head, the orc dismounted.

"You seem eager." Ahkmar noted dryly as the horse nearly bolted into the cave. Shrugging, she followed, pulling the necessary materials for a torch from her rucksack. After sparking the flint and steel a few times, the tar coating the short, solid branch caught. Torchlight flickered off the walls of the cave, which Ahkmar noted were well-coated in ice and ribbed like the inside of a snake's throat. "Hmm…" she mused, looking towards where the tunnel continued deeper into the mountain. It looked wide enough for Ven to comfortably walk so long as he was riderless, and Ahkmar had no intentions of leaving him behind unprotected. The cold was still biting and the frozen wind still jealously caressed any exposed flesh.

"Come on, Ven." The Orsimer grasped her midnight gelding's reins and made her way to the back of the cave, right hand wielding the slowly burning torch to chase away the shadows.

No evidence of life, past or present, presented itself as the two trekked along the halls of the chilling cavern but the path remained wide enough for Venrukaan to pass safely. A prickling at the back of Ahkmar's neck grew as they moved forward. The walls were still covered in ice more than thirty paces in, as thick as that at the entrance. Ahkmar tightened her grip on the torch in her hand, noticing that the tunnel was widening. Securing Venrukaan's reins to his saddle so that her treasured companion would not risk tangling them, she unsheathed the war axe at her hip. Dual-wielding fire and steel, she advanced warily to the chamber that she sensed ahead.

The first thing that Ahkmar noticed was a stone table that seemed to grow out of the floor of the cave, icy tendrils desperately grasping at its base but leaving the top shining darkly. Contrasting with the ebon glimmer, a small metallic statue stood vigil on its surface. Stepping forward, the womer raised her torch to get a better look.

Crack! Schkrr! Boom! The sound of a Nordic coffin opening met her pointed ears and Ahkmar looked up to see two glowing blue eyes staring at her through the muffled darkness of the cavern.

"Ven, stay ba-"

" _Fus… Ro Dah!_ " Ahkmar was flung backwards by the scratchy, hollow Voice of the Draugr Wight Lord, colliding harshly with the wall of the cave as her torch and short axe flew from her slackened fingers.

A growled curse escaped from Ahkmar's lips when the torch sputtered out, casting the room into darkness. Groping for the larger battle axe across her broad shoulders, the Orsimer trained her vision on the two glowing pinpoints of light coming from the undead creature's eyes. She was barely able to lift the staff of her weapon in time to prevent the Wight's broadsword from cleaving her in two. The sloppy block jarred her shoulders painfully. She retaliated with a sharp kick to what she thought was the Draugr's knee, grunting in satisfaction when she heard the impact of its body on the floor.

" _Laas Yah Nir_ " This Shout was more of a whisper, and a small smile crossed Ahkmar's lips when a ghostly red shadow shakily stood up from the ground in front of her. Hefting her axe with both hands, she swung at the figure, angling the blade so that it entered at the base of the ribcage and tore upwards through its side. The stench of preserved flesh and coagulated blood met her nose, assuring her of her success. Placing a foot on the Wight's chest, she wrenched her weapon from its reanimated body.

The broadsword clattered to the ground, abandoned by the crippled Draugr. The red light shrunk away from her and raised its spectral hands. Blue light illuminated the cave as a high pitched keening echoed off the walls. Streams of ice and frozen wind met Ahkmar's armor, and she shivered, feeling her arms strain to hold the weight of her heavy axe as her body diverted energy to keep her from freezing to death. With a guttural yell of rage, the Orsimer ignored her weakness and rushed towards her opponent, using the last vestiges of her stamina to firmly lodge her axe head into the crook of its neck.

Panting, Ahkmar watched the light from her Shout fade as the final sparks of undeath abandoned the Draugr Lord's form. Leaving her weapon in the corpse, she felt around for her abandoned torch.

Soft clopping met her ears and a whuff of warm breath brushed over her face as something wooden clattered to the ground. Reaching forward, she felt the thick base of the torch beneath her rough palm. "Thanks, Ven." She brushed his nose with her other hand. The gelding just breathed on her through wide nostrils and calmly nudged her with his large head. Pulling her flint and steel from the pouch at her waist, Ahkmar focused on catching a spark on the partially-burnt tar on the head of the torch.

Light flooded the cave again, and Ahkmar turned to once again regard the room's centerpiece. "What is a shrine to Akatosh doing here of all places?" The Orsimer mused, walking closer to examine the image of a dragon swallowing a sword. She placed her hand on the idol and closed her eyes, asking for the deity's blessing. Instead of the usual feeling of energy rushing over her, a great warmth expanded from the back of the cave.

Opening her eyes, Ahkmar noticed that the entire room was illuminated in full. The source of light was a great flaming dragon aspect. Flinching back, she reached for her battle axe only to grasp empty air. Cursing, she hurriedly sucked in air, but before she could shout, the dragon spoke.

" **Do not be afraid, my daughter.** " Its voice was like honeyed mead and screeching dragons all at the same time. " **Do you know who I am?** "

"Lord Akatosh" Ahkmar breathed, her tensed muscles relaxing as sapphire orbs rounded in awe.

" **Yes** " The Dragon God of Time sounded almost amused, " **You have defeated my first born, Alduin the World Eater and freed** _ **Dovah**_ **, Man, and Mer from his wrath and control. Paarthurnax will keep the** _ **Dovah**_ **in order in your stead.** " Here he paused.

"In my stead, my Lord? Is this where I die?"

" **No, my daughter. There is still great need for you in another realm, a land beyond Nirn called Middle-Earth by its people. Will you take this final quest?** " Rubies glittered in the flaming outline of the aspect's head, waiting for her to decide.

"As Dovahkiin, I am honored to accept your quest, my Lord" Ahkmar kneeled before the burning dragon, bowing her head.

" **Rise, daughter.** " Akatosh carved letters into the stone at his feet, superheated claws sliding effortlessly through the floor like a superior ebony dagger passing through a sweet roll. " **These are the words you need to Shout to go to Middle-Earth** "

"What am I to do there, my Lord? And what of Venrukaan?" Ahkmar questioned.

A great, terrible laugh echoed around the cavern. " **You will know when the time comes. And of your horse?** " Here he regarded the gelding cooly. " **He may pass with you through the void. A companion would make your journey lighter. The orcs of Middle-Earth do not have the code of honor that you Orsimer are so fond of. You would do well to remember that, my daughter. Man and mer alike will fear you, even hunt you for your green skin. Take care in whom you trust, and be strong.** "

Ahkmar cast her eyes upon the glowing claw marks on the ground and heard ancient Nordic music rush into her ears as ribbons of light spun from the words to meet her face and body. Then, like so many times before, the _Dovah_ souls within her rushed to the forefront of her mind, and she knew. _Lein Nil Wundun_.

She opened eyes she hadn't known were closed, and realized that the cavern was much dimmer than before. Akatosh was gone. Sighing, Ahkmar gathered her scattered weaponry by the lesser light of the torch and turned to Venrukaan. His large brown eyes glittered in the torchlight, the long lashes adding to his docile visage. Resting a hand on his muscled jawline, she brought her forehead to his. "Looks like we're going on another adventure, Ven. This time though, I feel like we're not coming back."

Her gelding snorted and she smiled. "Yeah, this place was getting pretty darn boring anyways what with being Dragonborn and all. The only people who'll fight me are undead or insane. Maybe in Middle-Earth I'll find a good death."

With that, she slung herself onto Venrukaan's wide back and grasped the reins.

" _Lein… Nil Wundun!_ " Ahkmar's Voice echoed off the dark stone walls. On a pedestal in the middle of the empty chamber, ruby eyes glittered.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. I would love to know what you think of sending an Orsimer Dragonborn to Middle Earth. This story is not going to get to the quest until much later, though some of the dwarves will be making an appearance pre-quest. When it gets to the quest, expect there to be a lot of deviation from canon. I do not plan on merely writing Ahkmar into** _ **The Hobbit**_ **.**

 **This is one of the few stories that I have almost fully outlined. You can expect an update at least once a month.**

 **Notes:**

 **Ahkmar is pronounced** _ **Ock**_ **as in H** _ **ock**_ **ey and** _ **Mar**_ **which rhymes with Scar.**

 **Venrukaan is pronounced as it is spelled:** _ **Ven-roo-khan**_ **. It means Wind Runner in** _ **Dovahzul**_ **.**

 _ **Lein Nil Wundun**_ **means** _ **World Void Travel**_ **because I wanted to mirror the construction of the canon shouts.**

 **Akatosh calls Ahkmar "My daughter" because he is the father of dragons and Ahkmar is Dragonborn.**

 _ **Womer**_ **is used instead of** _ **woman**_ **because Orsimer are mer and not men.**

 **If you have any questions at all, feel free to comment or send me a PM!**

 **-Kohlii**


	2. Children

The sun was shining brightly that morning, with nary a cloud in the sky. Two small children of men raced down a deer trail, their bare feet slapping the ground while wooden buckets swung haphazardly from their hands. "Last one to the river's orc bait!" A brown haired boy yelled, darting ahead of his rival.

"Don't say that, Harold! Orcs aren't something to giggle about." The taller girl griped, but nonetheless sprinted faster.

"Don't be such a wet blanket, Margot. I bet I could take one! Father's been teachin' me how to fight with a sword." Harold swung his bucket in emphasis, smacking the girl in the back.

"Hey! You shouldn't hit a lady." Margot yelped, whacking him across the head in retaliation.

"You're not a lady. You're my sister!" The two quickly devolved into a squabble, the race easily forgotten. Fists flew, hair was pulled and they rolled down the hill in their tussle. Margot had bits of grass and clods of dirt tangled in her dishwater blonde braids and Harold had the makings of a shiner around his left eye, but their cheeks were rosy with the exertion. The two siblings sat lay on the ground for a while, regaining their breath before Margot gasped.

"The water! Ma's goin' ta be so mad if we take too long!"

Harold blanched, grabbing his pail and his sister's hand with all earlier combat forgotten. "C'mon Margot! If we run we should be able to make it!"

A nod passed between them before they took off like they were being chased by Gundabad wargs.

Margot was slightly faster, her long legs working to her advantage, and she splashed into the bank of the Brandywine first. The river was fast, keeping the water clear and cold and Margot shivered as the heat she had generated in her run was ripped from her legs, leaving gooseflesh behind. Bending, she cupped water in her hands and threw it at her lagging brother with a giggle.

"Ooh! Yer gonna get it Margot!" Harold crossed the last few steps and loudly splashed into the water. Margot laughed again and backpedaled away from him, avoiding his clumsy lunges.

"You wish, Harold!" The tall girl stepped backwards again – only to realize that there was no more bank to step backwards on. Her eyes widened and she didn't have time for more than a shout of surprise before the strong current took advantage of her lack of balance and swept her away.

Harold stared in shock at the place where his sister had disappeared, arms still half-extended in preparation for another tackle. "Margot!" He yelled, "This isn't funny, Margot. Come on." Then a little ways downstream he saw a mop of braided blonde hair bob to the surface, lanky arms fought against the water for a moment before she was pulled down again. Harold swam to the bank, adrenaline making him faster than ever, and raced after his sister's flailing form.

" _Margot!_ "

* * *

Traveling from Nirn to Arda reminded Ahkmar of the time she was summoned into the mind of Pelagius the Mad. It was cold, disconcerting, and vaguely nauseating. Venrukaan seemed to be of the same opinion judging by the way he tossed his head, neighed angrily and bucked his hips. Ahkmar glanced behind her to see the last of the swirling black and purple portal shrink away. "Yeah, not doing that again anytime soon." She pinched her ridged nose until the nausea passed, her face twisted into a deeper grimace than usual.

Dismounting, she pulled a brush and curry comb from Venrukaan's saddlebags after leading them closer to a stunted tree on the barren plain that they had arrived in. Hanging the gelding's tackle on a low-hanging branch, she proceeded to comb down her mount. His flanks were slick with cold sweat and Ahkmar winced. "Sorry Ven. Didn't mean to scare you with that Shout." After a long grooming session, which soothed both horse and womer, Ahkmar resaddled Venrukaan.

"Let's see what this Arda is like, hmm?"

As Ahkmar walked, Venrukaan dutifully following his master, she observed her surroundings with a hunter's eye. Grass was the most prominent vegetation, but there were a few stubborn trees dotting the landscape, gnarled and twisted by their opposition to the strong prairie winds. The sun was unbearably hot, reminding her of Sun's Height in Falkreath. The Orsimer's experienced eyes caught evidence of land that was recovering from burn scars and she frowned. Was a dragon the cause? But why would a dragon just burn perfectly good land? Her thoughts were interrupted when the _shhh_ sound of a rushing river tickled her pointed ears.

"A river sounds like a good spot to gather our bearings, right Ven?" Ahkmar's grimace softened. "Fish for me and water for the two of us. Just like old times!"

Apparently in a quiet, flat environment sound travels far. By the time the two reached the pebbled shore, their minor thirst had evolved into something ravenous. Ahkmar yanked off her steel gauntlets and helmet, cupping her hands in the cool water. After checking it for clarity – Orsimer were hardy creatures, but it was always best to not tempt fate – she greedily drank her fill.

Satisfied, she stripped to her underthings and waded into the river. As she stood still in the cool, rushing waters, wisps of memory from a time before drifted to the forefront of her mind.

* * *

The silver fish darted away from her eager fingers for the seventh time and Ahkmar smacked the water in agitation. "G'omar, what'm I doin' wrong?" She turned to a taller orc, his skin a shade darker than hers.

"You have to be more patient, Ahkmar." Gromar instructed, his voice a soft growl. "A true warrior knows when to strike." With a little wink at his shorter companion, he plunged his arm into the river and pulled out a salmon that was nearly half Ahkmar's height.

Ahkmar stared in awe at her elder brother, her lips sliding back to reveal more of the tusks that were too big for her pudgy face. "Teach me! Teach me!" she hopped from foot to foot in the shallows.

Gromar laughed, amber eyes twinkling. "What do you think I'm doing, little sis?" He whacked the salmon on the head with a firm fist, throwing the carcass to the bank. "Your turn!"

"Just you watch, G'omar. I'mma catch one ev'n bigger'n yours!" Ahkmar focused her eyes on the river with renewed intensity, brow furrowed in concentration.

In the end, Ahkmar only caught a small trout. "I'll never be 's good 's you, G'omar." Ahkmar pouted when her brother insisted they get out of the water before she caught a cold.

"I couldn't catch a fish my first time. I was too loud and I scared 'em all away." He reached out to muss her damp hair, deepening her pout. "But you were patient and timed your strike right. You're going to be a little warrior in no time, just wait and see."

The little Orsimer brightened. "You think so?"

"I know so."

Ahkmar grinned, clutching her little trout proudly.

* * *

A flash of silver flickered into her vision and Ahkmar grasped the fish with both hands. Her hands were much more callused and larger now and muscle memory made the task run smoothly. Flinging the newly dead fish to the bank to join the two others, she stared at the water again. One more, the Orsimer decided.

Weak splashing sounds from upstream made her pause. It sounded like something fairly large was coming downriver. Some driftwood, maybe? Curious blue eyes sought out a wet straw-colored blob moving with the current.

A cat?

As the blob drifted closer, Ahkmar noticed a pale hand floating on the surface of the water. A mannish child? Springing into action, she dove after the waif. The current was no match for powerful arms strengthened from years of forging and swinging heavy weaponry. With one arm keeping the unbreathing child's head above the surface of the water, Ahkmar fought her way back to shore.

Laying the cold, unconscious girl on the bank, the womer turned the human's face to the side and began pounding at the center of her chest. "Come on, little one." She murmured. "Breathe. _Breathe!_ "

* * *

Huffing and puffing, Harold continued to follow the river. Margot had stopped splashing and the current carried her faster now that there was no more resistance. A while ago – a day, an hour, a second, a moment? – Margot had been swept out of his line of vision. His muscles burned, but he ignored the pain. "Margot! I'm coming Margot! _Margot!_ " He yelled, voice breathy with exhaustion.

Quieting in order to focus more of his energy on his legs, Harold heard rhythmic grunting. He raised his brown eyes from where they had been focused on the ground in front of him and collapsed in fright at what he beheld.

A large green orc was by the river, pounding at something beneath it with its fists. It was almost naked with only scant coverings across its chest and genitals. Harold wondered, terrified, how he was going to get past the beast without it noticing so that he could find Margot.

Eyes drifting downward, he registered dishwater blonde braids beneath the orc and his heart nearly stopped. "…Margot?" He whispered, petrified on the earthy riverbank. His big sister was being assaulted by a monster. Harold looked down at his hands, mud and dirt stuffed into the creases and darkening his short nails. He didn't have a weapon. What could he do to fight off such a beast? He didn't want to die, too.

But… Margot…

No. She was his sister. He couldn't leave her, what would Ma say if she found out? Clenching his small fists, he forced his smarting muscles to bring him to his feet. One shaky step followed another and soon he was at a full sprint. "Leave my sister alone, you son of a warg!"

The orc looked up with a snarl on its face, blocking his tackle and shoving him to the side. "You want her to die, whelp?" The gravelly voice caught the boy off guard for a moment and he crashed limply to the ground. Orcs can talk?

But then again… He watched the green monster return to whacking the spot between Margot's developing breasts and saw red. "Don't you dare threaten my sis! I'll kill you!" With a cry, Harold flung himself on the orc's broad back and clutched at its powerfully corded neck.

An angry tusked face filled his vision and he felt a hard fist collide with his temple before he fell to the ground and knew no more.

* * *

Ahkmar held her fingers to the male child of man's neck for a moment and, finding a slow but steady pulse, returned to her previous task of returning one to the female beneath her.

"Stupid kid." She muttered. "But I guess it's just as well he's here. Won't have to convince the girl to tell me where she lives when she wakes up."

As if on cue, a wet splutter sounded from beneath her and the long-limbed female proceeded to vomit up the contents of her stomach. Mostly river water, Ahkmar noted absently as she helped the girl roll further onto her side. "Just let it out, child" The Orsimer rumbled softly, smoothing blonde locks with her free hand. The girl coughed violently and began to shiver. Assessing her weakened state, she recognized the symptoms.

It was common in Skyrim for those races whose blood did not run hot to become sick with prolonged exposure to the cold, especially in icy rivers. If the child didn't get warm, and fast, Ahkmar may very well have just let her drown.

Pursing her lips, the Orsimer loosed a sharp whistle. From upstream Venrukaan galloped, slowing to a stop before his master and gazing at her with liquid brown eyes. Ahkmar only had regard for the pack on his back. Digging around in it for a moment she pulled out a long dress that she kept for resting times.

"Lie down, Ven." Barely sparing a glance for the stocky horse, she began peeling wet clothing off the shivering child. There was no resistance, and Ahkmar frowned in concern. She was still unconscious. Pulling the warm, dry dress over the girl's head, Ahkmar arranged a fur sleeping roll next to Venrukaan's flank. The girl nearly drowned in the layers of blue fabric where she lay burrowed into the gelding's warmth, needy keens arising from her throat.

Wrinkling her ridged brow, Ahkmar glanced at the dozing boy that she had nearly forgotten about. He might help. Gathering the child in her arms, she tucked him into the sleeping roll, sandwiching his shaking sister between himself and the horse. A short, satisfied nod later she wandered upstream to gather her fish and some wood for a fire.

The whelps wouldn't wake anytime soon, but when they did they would be hungry.

* * *

 **And there we have it, Ahkmar is now in Middle Earth and she has met her first humans. Who coincidentally hate her. How fun is that? Don't worry, Harold and Margot aren't going to become a huge part of the story. If you're wondering, Ahkmar is now located in Northern Minhiriath, close to the River Brandywine.**

 **As per usual, I'd love to hear your comments and/or thoughts! This is self-betaed so I'm the only one who sees it before it gets posted. Any tips on lore or writing style would be very much appreciated. Thank you!**

 **-Kohlii**

 **P.S. I really really wanted to make the description like this:**

 _ **Title: Being Green**_

 _ **Summary: It's not easy.**_

 **But my muse said no.**


	3. Monster

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Elder Scrolls or The Hobbit.**

 **Warnings: Some gore, blood.**

* * *

The sound of a crackling fire was the first thing Harold noticed, his stomach gurgling at the smell of cooking fish. And he was warm, so warm. Tightly swaddled like his ma used to do when he was a babe. He opened his bleary eyes to see a blue blob. Blinking a few times, he realized that it was fabric and the familiar shape of the body pressed against his was that of his sister. Smiling, he snuggled deeper into Margot's back, burying his nose into the soft fabric. He was safe. She was safe. Ma was making dinner over the fire.

Wait. He frowned. How was Ma making dinner when they didn't bring back the water? And stew didn't smell like roasted fish. A sharp pain on the side of his head reminded him of his bruise. But how did he…?

Harold remembered Margot slipping. Disappearing. And an orc? An orc! Lungs worked overtime and his heart raced as adrenaline rushed through his veins. Slowly turning his head, he caught a glimpse of a dark silhouette facing the fire. Green glinted at the bare skin at its neck and hands. He had to do something. Had to protect Margot! Harold wriggled out of the bedroll, stilling when the beast turned to address him.

"Hey, little warrior. Want some fish?" The orc's voice was a terrible growl, 'r's being rolled harshly at the back of its throat. It pointed a stick at him, a cooked trout skewered at the end, and Harold flinched away, eyes darting frantically around the camp to find a weapon – any weapon – in the growing darkness.

Harold's eyes focused on a modest pile of branches to the side of the fire. There was one on top that was big enough for a good swing, but could he make it? Flicking his sight to the still seated orc, he decided that he would take the chance. Better to die fighting than to be eaten alive.

Focusing again on the lumber, the small boy took off in a dead sprint. He couldn't hear anything through the blood rushing in his ears, but he was able to reach the pile and grab the improvised club. His hands were so tight against the base of the branch that his knuckles were white. Feverishly, he swung his head towards the fire. The orc hadn't moved. It just looked at him, the same scowling grimace on its face as before, and grunted, lifting the skewered fish toward him again.

His grip faltered. What did it mean? He looked at his thin arms and raised the branch defensively. The beast was trying to fatten him up for a better meal! "Let me 'n Margot go!" He demanded.

"I couldn't in my right mind let two whelps wander around these plains alone at night." The orc crossed its arms, nodding towards his sister. "Especially when one of them's recovering from being half-drowned."

Harold's gaze trailed towards the tiny blue lump curled up against the flank of a giant horse. He was just so _confused_. Orcs didn't talk. And even if they did, they didn't talk well. Orcs especially didn't help humans. There must be a motive. "We're skinny an' we don' taste good." Harold declared, raising his chin at the green beast.

"What, you-?" The orc almost sounded surprised. "I'm _not_ going to _eat_ you" The harsh yell made the boy flinch violently away. The orc growled. "Look, do you want the fish or not? You're stuck with me until morning so you may as well eat something." When Harold didn't move, it sighed. "I don't hurt people without reason, and I don't kill kids. It's not the way of my people."

"But Ma said that orcs kill everything an' never show mercy." Harold was still skeptical.

The orc seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Well, it's a good thing that I'm an Orsimer, then."

"An Or-see-murr?" The foreign word tumbled awkwardly off Harold's tongue.

"We look like orcs but we're more civilized. We have families and homes and laws." The orc patted the ground to its left. "So share the fire with me, little warrior. I promise I won't bite." It bared its sharp teeth in what Harold assumed to be an attempt at a smile.

Harold shivered, but walked closer. He settled himself on the opposite side of the fire, leering suspiciously at the orc and clutching his club. When the orc offered him the fish again, he snatched it from its green fingers.

When he tore his small, blunt teeth into the cooked fish flesh, juices exploded in his mouth. Before he knew it, he was licking his fingers and a small pile of tiny bones was gathered by his feet.

"Someone was hungry." The Or-see-murr rumbled. A tiny blush rose on Harold's cheeks before he forced it away. The orc observed him over the half-eaten remains of its own fish. There was nothing threatening in its eyes and Harold allowed himself to relax. It really had been a long day. His stomach was full and the fire was warm. A yawn rose in his throat as he slowly tipped sideways, grip loosening on his wooden skewer. His eyelids grew heavy. Two blinks later he was out like a light.

* * *

Ahkmar looked at the mannish child through the flames. He was slumped over and snoring softly, both hands cuddled beneath his chin. She smiled at the picture that he made. Rising, she walked back to Venrukaan to tuck the blanket tighter around the other child. Maybe if things had been different, if she wasn't _Dovahkiin_ , she could have had this. A family. Little warriors of her own to raise.

Pulling the bedroll snuggly across the girl's thin shoulders, she turned away.

The kids at the Honorhall Orphanage in Riften certainly would not have protested her taking them under her wing. She had a house after all. Breezehome in Whiterun. Lydia may have complained, but she would have taken care of them while the orc was killing bandits and dragons.

Ahkmar grimaced. Maybe it was because she was unsuited to becoming a mother. _Afraid_ , her mind insisted. All of the abandoned children were of man. They were weak-boned in comparison to the Orsimer. If she miscalculated her strength… No, perhaps it was better that she didn't adopt.

Lost in her musings, Ahkmar was caught off guard by an arrow sinking deeply into the thick muscle right below her left shoulder. A roar of pain ripped from her throat as she spun to face the threat. Two men stood on the other side of the fire. One was shakily fixing another arrow to his bowstring while the other brandished a crude iron sword. They wore plain tunics and breeches tucked into worn leather boots.

Bandits! The Orsimer growled and moved to put the children behind her. The steel war axe that was a permanent fixation at her hip made it into her right hand as she eyed the bowman. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the second man inching his way towards the two slumbering youths.

Her sapphire eyes bled red and she charged the bandit, yelling. Another arrow found its way into her unguarded side, but in her berserking state she felt no pain. All her focus was on this man who was threatening those who were under her protection. Grabbing the shocked man's tunic with her free hand, Ahkmar hacked at his sword arm with her sharpened axe. His screams of pain only fueled her blood rage and she locked eyes with the archer, blood from the amputated stump spraying to coat her lips and face like some sort of demented war paint.

He lost all color in his face, dropping to the ground like a wet noodle. Growling, she stalked towards him, throwing the dying carcass of the disarmed bandit to the side.

"Pa! No, _Pa_! No, no no no no _no_!" Cracked sobbing met her ears and her eyes faded back to their usual clear blue. The boy, awakened by the commotion, was clutching at the bloodied bandit's chest.

Wait… _Pa_? The orc spun to face the limp archer. "This is the whelp's father?" The petrified man could only stare. "Take the children and go." Guilt came over her momentarily, then she clenched her teeth and steeled herself. "Let this be a reminder of what happens when you attack unprovoked."

Her snarl seemed to incite something in the man because he stood up and drew his bow again, releasing a third arrow into her right pectoral muscle. Ahkmar roared in pain, grasping her axe again. "I gave you a chance. You do _not_ shoot a woman there, milk drinker." With that, she sunk the weapon's sharp head into the archer's dull one.

Children screamed and sobbed from behind her as the last bit of life left the cowardly man before her's eyes. Ahkmar stared at the younglings, slung across their sire's cooling chest, and felt the situation hit her like a whirlwind sprint. "I- _I_ did this. Malacath forgive me, for I am a monster."

The children looked at her with fear and hatred swirling in their brown eyes, cringing away into their father's corpse. Ahkmar flinched away from them, the pain from the arrows much less potent than the pain of her heart.

Grabbing her battle axe from the ground beside the fire, she methodically broke the shafts of the arrows. Venrukaan stood at the edge of the encampment, his tack and bags piled up on his left side. As if in a dream, Ahkmar buckled the gelding's saddle and slung herself upon his wide back. With a short, pathetic nudge to the horse's whithers, the two slowly plodded off into the darkness. Keening wails and sobs orchestrated a dismal anthem as the light from the fire became dimmer and dimmer behind orc and gelding and a single solitary tear fell down the Orsimer's face.

How was she supposed to complete her task here when she couldn't even keep herself from orphaning two young children?

* * *

 **Yes, Ahkmar just killed Harold and Margot's father. In these hard times, losing a father can be quite detrimental to a family, so she really is as good as orphaning them even if they still have a living mother.**

 **Life in Arda can't be all bubbles and sunshine for Ahkmar after all! Racism is still very prominent (and with good reason) against orcs. Ahkmar just had to learn this the hard way. I really wanted the kids to show their papa that Ahkmar was a nice orc, but that would be unrealistic so she is now painted in a bad light. What will this mean for her future?**

 **Thank you so much for your reviews! They've all made me smile and I'd like to thank you guys for sticking with me on this!**

 **-Kohlii**


	4. Magick

**Fair warning, pretty grody descriptions of wound treatment ahead.**

Ahkmar looked down at her tunic in disgust. The midmorning light revealed a rancid-smelling dark patch around the broken shaft of the arrow embedded in the fatty tissue of her right breast. If the other two wounds looked as bad as they felt, they weren't in any better condition. Wincing, she whistled weakly for Venrukaan to stop, all but falling out of the saddle when he obeyed. Her gelding whuffed her coarse black hair in concern, receiving a groan for his efforts.

Pushing herself to her feet, Ahkmar dug through Venrukaan's saddlebags for bandages and a bottle of mead. With her belt-knife, the orc cut careful slits in her tunic, widening the holes around the broken arrow shafts. Taking a swig of the honeyed alcohol and dumping some over her bare hands, she braced herself. With a deep breath in, she pushed a finger into her flesh alongside the arrow shaft, feeling for the head.

Only an idiot would actually pull out an arrow. The arrowheads were usually attached with sinew that loosened when wetted with warm blood. It was hard to locate a loose arrowhead and the sharp edges would ensure a slow, painful death. She felt the prick of the head against the pad of her finger and crooked it around the point with a hiss of pain. Rummaging around in your insides with your own hand was an odd feeling. With her other hand, she pulled the shaft out slowly, pressuring the metallic head to follow it safely out.

Licking dry green lips, she squeezed out the excess stinking pus from her chest wound. "Don't let me go without armor again." Ahkmar muttered to her horse.

She proceeded to pour some mead over the open wound in order to disinfect it, clenching her eyes against the stinging pain of the alcohol against her exposed flesh. Quickly, she wrapped a bandage around her body to slow the bleeding and proceeded to deal with the other two arrows in a similar fashion.

When the sun was at its peak in the cloudless blue sky, three bloody arrows lay side by side in the grass alongside an empty bottle of Honningbrew Mead.

"Good thing they weren't barbed arrowheads, huh Ven?" Ahkmar joked lightheadedly, pressing a hand against the wound on her side. Venrukaan snorted in return. "I think I'm gonna lie down for a bit"

* * *

Ahkmar awoke in a cold sweat, her fever making the sky spin. "Ven. Water" she coughed dryly, turning her head towards the dark gelding. He trotted over, bringing her canteen into reach. In her weakness, she spilled most of the precious liquid onto herself. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, Ahkmar focused on the wound in her side which was bleeding the most.

Every adventurer worth her salt knew a basic healing spell or two and Ahkmar was no exception, regardless of how much she _hated_ resorting to Magicka. In this case however, it was do or die and dying at the hand of a huntsman was not a good death. Closing her eyes, she reached into the deepest part of her soul wherein rested the tiny, barely developed pool of Magicka. The orc recalled the words of a nomadic priestess of Arkay who had taught her how to access this particular talent. " _Reach out and touch the pool, young one. Let it travel along your body like light and water. Do not be afraid of your magic. It knows what to do, you just have to point it in the right direction._ "

In her mind's eye, Ahkmar knelt next to the little pond containing her personal connection to Aetherius. She licked chapped lips and took in a deep breath before breaking the still surface with the fingertips of her right hand. _Heal_ , she insisted firmly. Like a chiming river of light and life, the glowing contents of the pool twisted and shimmered up her green arm, traveling across her body to collect drop by drop in the bleeding hole in the orc's side.

The humming and shimmering intensified, and Ahkmar felt more than saw the muscles and skin knit together, broken veins becoming whole again. Her Magicka reserves were rather low though, since the berserker type had opted to spend more of her time training stamina. The humming therefore faded before the other two wounds could be treated.

Magically and physically exhausted, again, Ahkmar succumbed to unconsciousness a second time.

* * *

The Orsimer's eyes opened to a starry sky and her ears opened to a snarl. Sitting up, she anxiously peered into the dimly lit night. Venrukaan was whinnying fiercely, clobbering a pack of what looked like wolves with his powerful front legs. "Five on one is pretty bad odds, don't you think, Ven?" Ahkmar pushed her aching body to her feet, stumbling like a newborn foal. The orc grimaced ferociously at her weakened state. "Dammit!"

Closing her eyes for a moment, Ahkmar let the spinning world fall into focus. Another furious snarl prompted her to take in the world in high definition. Eyes. Teeth. Claws. " _Kaan Drem Ov!_ "

The ancient power behind her Shout fell in soothing waves upon the minds of the fighting beasts, coaxing them to abandon their conflict. Equine and canine alike stood, muscles relaxed, staring at the green skinned wielder of the Voice. She tiredly gazed back. "Go on, shoo." The six animals began to amble away.

"Not you, Ven!" Ahkmar groaned exasperatedly at the retreating rear end of her gelding. Venrukaan stopped, turned, and trotted to her side, blinking slowly at her in his induced calm state. "Now let's see the damage." The orc walked around her mount, searching for wounds in the grey light of the moon. "Good job, Ven!" she praised, rubbing at his mane, only finding a few minor scratches from his tussle.

Venrukaan whuffed her hair in return, nudging her gently in the chest with his wedge-shaped head.

A twinge of pain shot through the womer's body at the contact, reminding her of her own injuries. "Take a rest, Ven. You deserve it." Ahkmar rubbed his velvety nose, pulling her hastily packed sleeping roll out of Venrukaan's saddlebags.

Lying down on the worn furry pallet, the orc reached for her pool of Magicka once again. The luminous blue waters lapped gently at the sides, a far cry from the parched pond that it had been when she last slept. Focusing on the hole in her shoulder, Ahkmar let the humming restorative magic knit her flesh together again before falling back into a deep slumber.

* * *

 **Not a lot happens in this chapter, sorry about that. I did some research about arrow wounds and realized that I had actually given Ahkmar a death blow in the previous chapter! Three arrows to the torso would kill a man, especially if not treated properly** _ **cough..Boromir..cough**_ **. This is why our little Orsimer needs to know some minor Restoration spells in order to survive. But I don't want her to seem overpowered, what with shouts, axes** _ **and**_ **magic, so her magic is very** _ **very**_ **minor.**

 **You can imagine her level of Magicka as if a person had rolled an orc in** _ **Skyrim**_ **and decided to spend zero points in leveling Magicka or any related skills. So she still has some, but not enough for it to really make an astonishing difference. i.e. she can only heal herself, and it would be of no use in the middle of a battle, since it exhausts her so easily.**

 **On another note, do you guys** _ **want**_ **any romance in this story? I'm thinking of keeping it Gen, since romance can really take over a story and since as an orc, Ahkmar isn't going to be turning any heads anytime soon (and she wouldn't respect Azog's morals enough to even** _ **consider**_ **him as a mate, so don't even go there).**

 **Thoughts, questions, ideas, complaints?**

 **Thanks,**

 **Kohlii**


	5. Perception

**Chapter 5**

The morning light shone red through Ahkmar's eyelids as her drowsiness was replaced by an uncomfortable tightening in her gut. Her tongue darted out to lick dry, cracked lips. Forcing her eyes open, she pushed her torso from the ground with weak arms and rose to her feet. A beast of hunger was tearing at her insides and she tasted stomach acid on the back of her tongue.

A steady thumping of hooves on packed earth and a puff of hot breath washing over her pointed ear prompted her to look up at her dark horse. "Ven" she called hoarsely. "Bags". The intelligent equine laid down beside his companion to give her easier access.

Ahkmar had been in the habit of foraging or hunting for her food while wandering the frozen wilderness of Skyrim. There were plenty of bandit camps that, after she cleared them out, had enough grub for a few meals and a hefty selection of other loot besides. Fur armor and cheaply sharpened steel made for some quick coin, if you had the room to carry them. The only downside to this habit was that it kept her personal food stores low in priority and quantity.

With a slight frown, the orc produced a fist-sized piece of hard bread and a crumbled bit of molded cheese from the bottom of her traveling bag. But beggars can't be choosers. Ahkmar tore into the hard loaf with her sharp teeth and tusks, chewing the dry, flavorless substance and swallowing, alternating bites with the dense, earthy taste of the cheese wedge. The meal left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth and the dry components caked themselves on the walls of her throat. Ahkmar groped at the ground for her waterskin. Her fingertips came into contact with the dry leather casing and she pulled it greedily to her mouth.

A single drop fell from the rim and wet her lips. With a snarl, she clenched her fist and shoved the skin into her bag. "Dammit, it's empty! Must have spilt it all over, trying to replenish my magicka. Stupid good for nothing sorcery."

Venrukaan snorted.

"What're you looking at?" Ahkmar coughed dryly, leveling her horse with a disgruntled glare.

The gelding stood and began ambling away from his downed partner.

"Get back here you stupid horse!" Ahkmar stood, stronger now that most of her wounds were healed.

Venrukaan stopped for a second, then trotted a little faster.

"Okay, okay, not stupid!" The Orsimer amended quickly.

Venrukaan stopped again, turning to gaze at her with one large brown eye.

Ahkmar sighed. "Handsome, strong, smart, fast."

The horse began trotting back towards her.

"Big, combative, dependable, loyal"

He nosed her shoulder.

"Venrukaan." Ahkmar smiled at him, patting the hinge of his jaw. "Let me get covered up, and maybe we'll go have a look-see around this place. Find a town. Find some work. Maybe find out some more about this quest we're supposed to go on."

Ahkmar dug through her bags, pulling out a long men's tunic, breeches, tall boots, and a scarf. After tugging on the clothes and wrapping the scarf around her lower face and neck, she donned her steel plate armor, thankful that she had made the choice to smith herself a full helm. Now that no skin was showing, the Orsimer could hopefully pass herself off as a human. "People see what they expect to see. And they won't expect to see a civilized orc, now will they?"

* * *

 **Sorry for the short chapter, guys! The next part just begged to go on its own though. I'll have it up in the next couple days, so stay tuned. Just have to run it through a few times for hiccups.**

 **Again, thank you for all your lovely reviews!**

 **-Kohlii**


	6. Stranger

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Old Man Avery had seen a lot of things in his fifty years, but a fully armored man on horseback riding casually into town was new. He leaned forward in his rocking chair, peering at the man. "Sarah, yuh betta' come take a look a' this."

His wife, a pretty grey-haired thing, scurried out, brushing floured hands on her apron. "This'd betta' be good, Avery. I was makin' some bread fer Marjory an' her whelps."

"Shh,, woman! Take a look a' tha'" he pointed. "Think he's one of them Rohan folks?"

"Tha' horse's big enough, certain." Sarah pursed her lips. "But what d'ya think he's doin' way out here? Poor man's a long way from home."

"Maybe he's deserted. They went out ta' kill sum orcs an' he got scar't an' ran off." Avery nodded at the stranger with a frown on his wrinkled face.

"But even we'd get a bounty for a deserter in the area, I think" Sarah gasped suddenly, sinking into the chair next to her elderly husband. "You don't think that…"

"What, Woman?"

"He was…" bringing her hands to her chest, the old woman turned teary brown eyes to her husband. "His mates all got into a fight with the orcs. They fought n' fought until there was only the one left. An' now he's vowed revenge on all orcs for killin' 'is brothers." The two turned solemnly towards the horseman.

"Aye, poor man indeed."

* * *

When Ahkmar entered the village, she was punched in the face by the stench of human waste. The heat of this country only seemed to amplify it, and she had to hold her breath for a moment as she adjusted. Skyrim's frigid atmosphere tended to mask the smells of civilization by numbing nasal functions.

Nudging Venrukaan's flank with her heels, she urged her stalled gelding forward. Her still-present chest wound pressed her to pay careful attention to how she rolled her hips with Venrukaan's trot. The people of this town were giving her odd looks, but after casually checking the hems of her clothing, Ahkmar was sure that none of her skin was showing. Shrugging, she pushed the curious civilians out of her mind, searching for a sign with an anvil or something.

After discovering that there actually _were_ no signs in the village, she tugged lightly on Venrukaan's reins to bring him to a halt. "Excuse me, miss" Ahkmar waved at a rather short woman in a yellowish working dress. "Do you know where I might find the smithy?"

"Ah! Um, I-" The girl seemed rather flustered.

"You c'n find i' over here, sir!" A short boy in a tattered, sooty tunic waved her over. "My da's the best smith you c'n find East 'a tha Blue Mountn's." He assured her.

"I'm sure he is" Ahkmar allowed, hiding a smile. With her heels she urged her hefty gelding forward.

After following the scamp for a while, the trio stopped in front of a shack with a hot forge built snugly against one of the walls. A small, carefully tended garden grew on the other side. The wood of the wall near the forge was black with soot and the signs of an old fire or two, and the forge was simpler than any she'd seen back in Skyrim. Barely functional. _But I suppose in a town like this, it's enough._

"Yup, she's not pretty!" A voice boomed beside her, making the orc's fingers twitch towards her axe. "But she's all we got." A fondness crept into his voice. "See that wall there? Catches fire at least once a season. It's a wonder it's there at all anymore! And she's built right up against the wall 'f our house. If you stay inside too long 'n the summer, you might die 'f the heat. But our family is nice and toasty in the winter. Don't even really need blankets much anymore."

Ahkmar's mouth quirked upwards beneath her scarf. "Do winters get pretty bad around these parts?"

"New to Minhiriath, Son?" The aproned smithy peered at her curiously. "Yeah, they c'n get pretty chilly. A few years back there was a long winter. Colder'n anything. The wolves got hungry, too. Lots of people lost loved ones. I'm just lucky my little Harris survived. He got caught in the snow you know." The smith crossed his arms and lowered his thick eyebrows. "Woulda' died of the frost 'f not fer the forge. I kept it blazin' fer a week straight. The blue left his lips and he lived. My only son." He looked fondly at the scamp from before. "My wife birthed me two daughters before I got Harris, but neither of them was interested 'n smithin'. That there garden's their work. Them'n me wife. Doesn't bother me, though. Keeps us fed. Ah! What's your name, Lad?"

"Ahkmar."

"Hmm. Strange name. Ahhh-kuh-maaahhhr." The man drew it out with a frown.

Ahkmar stiffened. "You can call me Orsimer, though. If you want. It's the name of my, er, my people."

"Orsimer, that's easier!" the smith boomed. "I'm Gunther if I forgot to say. Now what business do you have for me?" He rubbed his large, calloused hands together.

"I have a few pieces for you to look at." Ahkmar pulled a pile of hide armor and a couple of iron swords from Venrukaan's saddlebags, spreading them on the smith's workbench.

The large man hemmed and hawed for a moment, looking the goods over. "Where'd you get this?"

"Cleared out a bandit camp a few days before." Ahkmar rumbled. "Well? What'll you trade for them?"

"We're a farming town, Orsimer. Don't have much need for armor or swords. Try someplace else."

Ahkmar huffed at him, walking closer to jab a gloved finger at the straps of the armor pieces. "You can't say that this isn't useable. Take it apart, use it as raw material if you will. You say you're a farming town, huh? A few cuts and stiches and you've got yourself a good set of reins. And boots are always wearing out. You could turn a tidy profit real quick. The swords can be melted down and reforged into tools. The metal is pure enough to be worth the trouble."

Gunther looked at the orc, impressed. "You know your stuff, Orsimer. I'll give you five silver pieces for the lot."

Ahkmar panicked for a minute. _Crap, I forgot to check the currency around here. I don't know what anything is worth._ Bringing up her confidence, she bartered "Ten."

"Seven"

"Nine"

"Seven and I'll throw in three tomatoes from our garden."

"Done." They shook on it, Gunther disappearing into the house to find his coin purse. Ahkmar wandered over to the forge, looking at the way Gunther fashioned his bellows. His hammer and tongs looked to be made of repurposed iron and the anvil, despite signs of obvious care, was dented, scratched and stained a blackish gray color. Hearing the slight jingle of coins along with the smithy's heavy footsteps, the orc turned away from her observations.

"Here we are!" The man counted seven silver coins into her palm from a small coin purse and handed her a sack with three ripe, red tomatoes in the bottom. "Pleasure doin' business with ya, Orsimer. Come again if you find anything else worth selling."

"Likewise, Gunther. Thank you for your time." Ahkmar nodded at the broad man before grabbing Venrukaan's reins and leading him back through the streets.

* * *

 **Thank you for all the lovely reviews and support!**

 **Ifar brought up the fact that Skyrim orcs look a heck of a lot different than Tolkien orcs. First, thank you for bringing up this point. Secondly, I concede that you are correct, however if someone from Middle Earth saw an Orsimer, then they would identify it as an orc because out of all the species in Middle Earth, Orsimer look the closest to Tolkien orcs, and Tolkien orcs are varied enough that it would be plausible.**

 **Case in point: there is an adorable-looking orc in the last few minutes of** _ **The Return of the King: Extended Edition**_ _ **Disc 1**_ **that looks like a baby bat (cutest orc ever, let me tell you). Azog in** _ **The Hobbit**_ **looks more like a World of Warcraft orc than anything to me, and the pale commander in** _ **The Return of the King**_ **looks like a deformed cat.**

 **Thanks again for reviewing!**

 **-Kohlii**


	7. Dragon Slayer

Chapter 7

 **This is an extra-long chapter because University started and I got too busy with Engineering to write and I felt bad for not updating like I said I would and I'm only writing now because I have a final essay due in T minus nine hours and I should really write it but I got** _ **inspired**_ **for this story and stuff… Anyways Happy Christmas and Merry Thanksgiving and enjoy. P.S. don't get too confused, but there are a few minor time skips in this chapter to help move the story along.**

* * *

" _Graah!_ " a yell tore from Ahkmar's throat as she hurled a short throwing axe. An answering yelp assured her of her aim, and she turned eyes red with bloodlust to her next challenger. Her war axe sunk itself deep into the cranium of the wolf, splitting his right ear in two and causing blood and brains alike to spurt from the fatal wound. The warm, dark lubricant allowed her to free her weapon from the newly dead creature and turn it upon a third assailant lunging at her from her left flank. Her wedge-shaped blade made a shallow cut along its exposed belly, causing tangles of intestine to fall to the dying grass as the eviscerated canine howled in pain. A loud whinny followed by a crunch made the Orsimer look toward Venrukaan in concern, but the sturdy horse had used his weight and sharp hooves to crush the head and chest of the wolf that had been rending his forelegs with tooth and claw.

Ahkmar flicked reddened eyes across the plains in search of more enemies, but found only the corpses of beasts cooling in the late afternoon sun. Absently licking specks of blood from her lips, Ahkmar let her berserker rage fade. Her armor had certainly done its job in protecting her skin from the sharp teeth of the wolf pack, but the exertion of fighting off the creatures had reopened her earlier chest wound. Venrukaan was not so lucky. The deep brown of Venrukaan's chest and forelegs was streaked with red from the wolf's jaws. His withers were speckled with foam, heaving with each breath.

Disregarding the bodies of the wolves for the moment, Ahkmar pulled out a scrap of clean cloth and her canteen, approaching her steed. With careful motions and much coaxing, she cleaned the equine's wounds and proceeded to bandage them with a pack made from crushed herbs that she had purchased before leaving the village. The sluggish bleeding on her own chest had clotted by then, aided by the blood collecting in the fibers of the tunic pressed against her skin by the fitted steel armor.

Ahkmar turned her eyes, and her steel dagger, to the five wolves on the ground. Her own injuries could wait until after she had secured her kills. Her finely sharpened blade cut through the belly of the disemboweled wolf like butter, allowing the Orsimer to fully remove the organs remaining in its chest cavity and abdomen. Those she set in a pile to the side of the carcass, excepting the unpunctured bladder which she placed on her other side. Carefully, she separated the skin from the muscles, trying to make as few holes and cuts as possible. Laying the skin flat on the ground, fur side down, Ahkmar set to work on cutting the meat from the bones. Wolf meat was no venison, but it would still fill her belly. The largest of the bones she placed near the hide along with the skull, still containing the brain. Folding the hide over the meat, she moved on to the next wolf, treating it in a similar way.

After the last wolf was dismantled, Ahkmar gathered all but the organs and smaller bones together, using rope to tie the wrapped bundles to her own shoulders to lessen the burden on her injured companion.

"Ven, let's go find a place for the night."

They walked towards the light of the sun until it began to redden on the horizon, making a copse of trees cast long shadows over the plains. Ahkmar smiled at her good fortune of finding a small forested area and proceeded to set up camp in a clearing shortly within the trees. After stripping herself of her breastplate and greaves, she attended to the last of the arrow wounds on her person.

Dry branches lent themselves to a cheerily crackling fire upon which she roasted strips of wolf meat. A large portion of the rest was treated with salt and strung up to dry. A Shout of " _Fo_ " preserved the remaining meat and Ahkmar buried it shallowly at the base of a tree. She then set herself to work tanning the hides. The brain matter was pulverized and mixed with urine from the bladders and the womer massaged the pungent paste into the hides. As she let it set, Ahkmar tied together long, thick branches to serve as tanning stations. Thoroughly washing her hands with hot water from a travel mug she had set near the fire, Ahkmar enjoyed her dinner of tomato and roasted wolf meat before curling up by the dying cinders of the fire and allowing sleep to claim her.

* * *

Ahkmar wiped the sweat from her brow as she surveyed the foundation she had laid out. A small quarry nearby had served to supply her with ample stone and a bit of iron for nails. Already the Orsimer had built a forge near where the south wall that would be for used in forging the nails she would require for the rest of the dwelling. "Just like old times, eh Ven?" A small smile pulled at the edge of her lip as she remembered the first house that she built in the frigid green of Falkreath. It was in one of the warmer parts of Skyrim and she had had a book of blueprints to guide her building. It felt good to use the forge again, like something that she had been missing was coming back to her. Molten iron was in her blood as first daughter of the Forgewife.

In the last two months Ahkmar hadn't returned the small town except to occasionally trade her tanned hides for supplies that she couldn't easily forage for in the wild. The life of a hunter, however, bored her. She was looking forward to finishing her house so that she could make a living on blacksmithing while she waited for her quest to make itself known. Nailing another slab of wood to the south wall, Ahkmar began to softly sing the ballad of Ragnar the Red. Soon she would have a more permanent shelter and protection from both the elements and the creatures that called the forest their home.

* * *

It was in the seventh month of living in Brookside Hall ("Every good home needs a name, and the cheery stream running close to the house is as good as any inspiration, Ven") that a small caravan of small, stout bearded men approached her forge. As she had become accustomed to, Ahkmar was swaddled head to toe in cloth and was fully armored, despite the warm weather. The Orsimer was taken aback by these small men and their uncanny resemblance to statues she had seen in the Dwemer ruins that she had explored what seems like ages ago. As she stared at the men – no, _meri_ she corrected – the one in the front shifted slightly and cleared his throat.

"Are ye the one they call Orsimer?" His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small creature and the green-skinned womer blinked owlishly before responding.

"Aye, that I am." Pausing for a moment, she continued. "I've the finest weapons and armor in all of Minhiriath if you care to browse." She looked questioningly at the Dwemeri, resting a gauntleted hand on her waist.

"Aye, I'd like that Master Orsimer. My name is Dori, at your service." He offered a short bow which she returned. "And these are Dwalin and Harin." The named Dwemeri bowed at the mention of their names.

"And I am Orsimer, at yours, Master Dori. Now if you would follow me, I keep my wares inside."

Ahkmar stepped inside the house first, leading Dori and his two companions toward the wall from which hung her unsold weapons. "I'm afraid that I don't have many armors that are made for the stature of a Dwemer, but I do take fitted commissions."

"Dwemer?" Dori looked at her in confusion. "I haven't heard that term before."

"Ah, sorry. It's a term that my people use for a race that looks similar to yours. It was my mistake. What do you call yourselves?" Ahkmar flinched slightly at her lapse in filter.

"Dwarves, Master Orsimer." The round mer corrected gently.

"Well then, while you look at my wares would you _Dwarves_ like some honeyed mead?"

There was a unanimous and jovial affirmative and Ahkmar went to the cellar to fill four mugs from a barrel she had purchased from the meadery in Hillshire, a small town to the west, on the coast of the Brandywine.

When she reentered the room, Ahkmar surreptitiously glanced about the room. Finding nothing out of place, she handed the dwarves their mugs and sat in a wooden chair next to the unlit hearth as she waited for them to come to their conclusions.

"What style is this warhammer made in?" The tallest dwarf, Dwalin if she remembered correctly, inquired. Examining the hammer, she blushed slightly.

"It's a bastardization of Dwemer weaponry. The art of making Dwemer metal has been lost to my people for centuries, so without access I had to make do with a bronze and steel alloy." She traced the blocky designs forged into the metal lovingly with a gloved hand. "The end result is a blunt weapon that is as beautiful as it is deadly." She coughed in embarrassment at her sentimentality and handed the hammer back to Dwalin.

"If you were any shorter I'd think you were a dwarf, Laddie." The tattooed mer appraised the hammer again. "The style certainly seems similar to that of my people's, though I know nothing of a secret dwarvish metal." He looked at her then. "Mind if I test it out?"

"Aye, go right ahead. Would you be adverse to a spar, I'm getting a little rusty myself with only my horse for company."

"I warn ye, I have been a warrior for longer than ye have been alive, Laddie." He warned.

"I am no green shoot myself, Master Dwalin. I do not fear battle." Ahkmar grinned.

Dwalin grunted, watching her walk to the wall and pick out a second dwarvish warhammer, weighing it in her hand.

"Shall we take this outside?" Ahkmar proposed.

She led the trio of dwarves to a small clearing next to the house, designed for this very purpose.

Wielding her hammer with both hands, she waited for Dwalin to make the first move. He did not disappoint, charging toward her like a whirlwind and swinging his hammer. She lifted her own to block, the impact producing a clear ringing sound that made a dwarf on the sidelines whistle in appreciation. She smirked, shoving the shaft of her hammer with both hands, capitalizing on her superior height in an attempt to overbalance her opponent.

He pushed back with a degree of strength that took her by surprise, forcing her to take a step backward and allowing him a degree of freedom that he quickly capitalized on, smashing the head of the hammer into the side of her breastplate. A small dent appeared in the metal and Ahkmar grunted in pain at the shockwave that rattled her ribcage. Quickly spinning around him in an imitation of her berserker style, Ahkmar gave him a whack to his own armored side. His armor had a dent that was deeper than hers, and she grunted in satisfaction.

The two traded blows for another hour before Ahkmar stepped back and yielded. "You are a strong warrior, but I'd rather not repair too many dents in my armor, if it's all the same to you."

"Aye, as are ye Laddie" Dwalin smiled. "I wonder what you were before you became a smithy."

Ahkmar crinkled her eyes at him. "A dragon slayer."

Dwalin roared with laughter. "Aye, Laddie that's a good one." He wiped away tears of mirth from his eyes.

Ahkmar frowned at the insult to her honor, stiffening her shoulders. "You would call me a liar, Dwarf?"

The clearing abruptly silenced. "There is only one dragon that was alive at the time of your birth, Laddie and you certainly haven't slayed him."

Ahkmar disappeared into the house, removing from her scant possessions before the void a medium pouch full of dragon scales. She produced one, glittering like onyx, and showed it to the dwarves. "This belonged to Alduin, the World Eater, a dragon from my homeland that threatened to destroy everything before I destroyed him."

The dwarves examined the scale carefully, before identifying it as from an undocumented creature, possibly a dragon. "From where do ye hail, Orsimer?"

"Skyrim, a frozen land very far from this place." Ahkmar paused. "But enough about my past, what would you say about my smithing?"

The dwarves seemed to still be curious and skeptical about her _Dovahkiin_ persona, but Dwalin was content to barter over her wares. "The hammer is very well balanced and despite the strength of our blows has resisted warping exceptionally well. The noise that it makes when striking is pure, and the designs are appropriate for a dwarven warrior. I will give ye ten gold coins for the hammer."

"Fourteen gold coins, it is a unique alloy"

"Eleven, and I will refer customers to ye."

"Eleven gold and seven silver pieces and you refer those customers." Ahkmar bartered.

"Deal." They shook on it and Dwalin counted the coins into her hand.

Dori cleared his throat, turning the Orsimer's attention to him. "Master Orsimer, I would like to extend a trade agreement with ye if ye would be willing."

"That depends on the terms of the agreement, Master Dori."

"Aye, that it does. Would ye mind if we sit and draw it out? Contracted, of course." Dori gestured questioningly to the house.

"Aye, I'll hear you out." The two of them went to sit down while Harin ran to fetch a roll of parchment and a quill. Once they were all settled, Ahkmar having lit the hearth against the darkening of the day and the cold of the night, Dori began outlining his terms.

"Ye would only trade with us and we would purchase your wares at a reasonable price and resell them from our caravan." He proposed.

"No." Ahkmar disagreed. "I will have the freedom to trade at anyone at my discretion. You will commission a set number of items each month for me to make and sell to you in bulk at a ten percent discount price and you will claim the items as my craftsmanship when asked. I will also be allowed to place my own seal upon the weapons in a discrete location."

"Thirty percent discount and priority in commissions."

"Fifteen percent and priority."

"Twenty percent and priority."

Ahkmar thought for a moment and nodded. "I have freedom of trade, but you will have a commission priority with a twenty percent discount in bulk and must claim my craftsmanship and allow a small personal seal in a discrete location."

"Deal." They shook on it and signed the contract after Ahkmar read through it carefully to ensure that it recorded correctly what they had agreed on.

Ahkmar offered to let the dwarves set up camp in the sparring arena, as the sun had disappeared from the sky and they agreed readily, inviting their host to share supper with them which she respectfully declined.

As Harin sparked their campfire, Dori pulled out links of sausage and hunks of cheese. Ahkmar's mouth watered at the smell, but she steeled her resolve. You needed to show your mouth to eat, and Orsimer had very distinctive mouths. Instead, she made some rabbit stew over her own hearth, thinking absently about the dragon the dwarves had mentioned and wondering if it had anything to do with her Akatosh-given quest.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love it if you left a review on your way out.**

* * *

 **Thu'um**

 _Fo_ – Frost, the first word of the shout _Fo Krah Diin_ or _Frost Breath_


	8. Dwarves

It was a clear sky that night, starlight filtering down through the branches of the trees that surrounded the clearing. Little scratches and titters of the local nightlife accompanied Dori's snores. Dwalin sat with his back against the rough bark of a thick tree, his mind alert while his body rested.

"Who? Who?" A horned owl questioned. _Aye, who indeed?_ Dwalin mused with a frown. _This Orsimer, if that is his real name, is certainly a suspicious character. Dori is being rather trusting._ His hands clenched minutely around the staff of the hammer across his lap. _If I was the trader here, I'd demand to see the face of the person we're making a deal with. Sure, he seems kind enough – offering us mead and the like – but he's too much of a suspicious character. A dragon slayer?_ A twinge of pain mixed with anger sparked through his body at the thought. _What an insult. To suggest that a whelp such as him, voice still pitched like a boy's, could succeed where we have failed…_ His knuckles whitened around the hammer's grip as stories of Smaug's destruction flickered through his mind. Everyone had lost someone that night, and for those that were there, the memory was seared into their very souls.

Dwalin remembered Balin's haunted eyes when he spoke of the fall of Erebor.

* * *

"Are ye sure ye want to know, Dwalin?" Balin's brown eyes darkened with pain, the light of them all but drowning in the broken memory that clouded them.

In light of the seriousness of the situation, Dwalin couldn't make his voice work, so he nodded shortly instead. He had been born a scant two years after the destruction, never fully understanding the pain of his elders.

Balin cleared his throat, sitting up straight in the stone chair, fists clenched into blooms of white and red as he called long-suppressed memories to the surface. "That day started out like any other. The halls of Erebor were alight with gold an' gems an' the mixed conversation of a prosperous city. Even the weather didn't bely the doom tha' was approaching. The sun was high and deceptively cheerful, and nary a cloud was in sight.

"The first warning that we got was a loud thumping sound. A few of the merchants began to slowly pack up their wares, grumbling about freak thunderstorms, but most people just pushed it aside. Rain was annoying, sure, but nothing that we couldn't deal with when it came. The sound got louder and louder. I think I was one of the first people to see Him, curious little dwarrowling tha' I was. At first, I thought that he was just a kite – I never played with them much, but the human children especially loved them, the brighter the colors the better.

"But then the little red speck of a winged beast grew larger and larger and my heart jumped into my throat when I realized what it was. By the time I was able to unfreeze meself to utter a shout of warning, He was upon us. Screams and shrieks filled the air, the high-pitched whine of his flames overcoming everything else as he immolated and ate his way through the doors of the mountain. There was nothing that I could do, stunned as I was. Small as I was.

"I probably would have stood there until Smaug decided to turn me into a pile of ash and bone had Ma not grabbed me and forced me to move. We ran. It was like a stampede, dwarrow and dwarrowdam alike sprinting like spooked mountain goats away from the great lizard. I tripped and stumbled over the fallen in my haste to escape." Balin flinched at the memory. "Some of them were still alive, ye know. The old, the weak, the unlucky. We trampled each other like dumb cattle. I try not to think about the outstretched, bloody hands and the skulls, burst like overripe melons.

"There was no way to prevent Smaug from taking Erebor. His hide was too strong fer our weapons to penetrate and he had too much ammunition 'n mass for us to beat him with numbers. In a day, _a single bloody day_ , the pride of Durin, beautiful Erebor fell. _And we could do nothing_." Balin was yelling at this point, grief and shame apparent in his tense posture and angry tears. Caught up in his frustration, Balin could not continue.

Dwalin never asked his brother about the day the world burned again.

* * *

Dwalin awoke with the morning, grey-dappled sunlight playing across his eyelids as sleepy birds began trilling their cheery greetings. Dori wasn't bothered by the sound, the lazy pig, still sawing logs by the coals of their cooking fire. Shooting the sleeping merchant a fondly annoyed look, Dwalin pulled out pans and sausages, relighting the fire to cook breakfast.

Dori's nose soon pushed him into the land of the living as it picked up the scents of crackling meat and potatoes. Harin wandered closer to the fire from his position near the trees. He had had the last shift of the night, after all. Grunting, Dwalin offered him a bowl of crispy nourishment, the fat from the sausages dripping and mingling with the starchy potatoes. Harin nodded in thanks, accepting the food and falling back to shovel it into his mouth with a wooden spoon.

"Well lads, it seems that our business here is done." Dori spoke around a mouthful of steaming meat. "We've got places to go, wares to sell." Dwalin nodded, glancing up as the door to their host's cabin swung open and Orsimer popped out, stretching his covered joints. Dori followed his gaze as the man walked toward them with long strides. A genial smile that didn't quite reach his eyes broke across Dori's lips as he walked closer. "Ah, Orsimer! Just the man I wanted to see!"

"Have you decided what you wanted me to craft for you?" Dwalin heard the tiniest spark of amusement in the enigmatic man's voice.

"Aye, in fact I have, Laddie." Dori smiled again. "I want two of those war hammers and three swords of the same make…"

As the two haggled and discussed logistics, Dwalin and Harin busied themselves with cleaning up the campsite. By the time the tradesmen were shaking hands and signing contracts, the wagon had been packed and the horses fed and watered.

"Good journeys," Orsimer bid them as they set out, left hand resting casually on his hip as he raised his right to wave. "May your swords stay sharp and your minds sharper. And Master Dwalin," Dwalin turned to the tall man. "I'll be looking forward to another spar when you come back."

"Aye" Dwalin let a fierce grin overtake his features. "As will I, Lad. As will I."

* * *

The Blue Mountains were the only place Fíli and Kíli had ever considered home, and the two juvenile dwarves could navigate the halls with their eyes closed. Sometimes, if the brothers were bored, they would test their skills with a blindfold.

Today was one of those days.

Fíli knotted his belt around his eyes with a grin, his ears picking up the faint rustling of Kíli doing the same. "Last one to the kitchen's a prissy elf!" Fíli yelled, taking off the moment the strap of leather was secured.

"Not fair!" Kíli shrieked behind him, stumbling. "I wasn't ready!"

"Need me to chop you some vegetables, Master Elf?" Fíli sniggered, refusing to slow down.

"No way! Yer the one with the blond hair!" Kíli pointed out.

"And yer the beardless wonder!" Fíli shot back with a grin.

Kíli let out a noise of pure outrage and sprinted faster. Fíli cackled, forcing his own legs to move faster as well. _A left turn here … and here … right …_ Blinded as he was, the blond heir of Durin didn't notice his balding cousin until after they had both collided. Fíli fell hard on his tailbone, his head reeling from impact. He barely registered Kíli rushing by as he sat in a momentary stunned silence.

"Watch where yer goin' ye little brat!" Dwalin grunted, grabbing at Fíli's shoulders. "Oh fer Mahal's sake, why're ye wearin' yer belt over yer eyes?" Dwalin's thick fingers undid the buckle, removing it none-so-gently from his little cousin's head.

Fíli blinked sheepishly at the older warrior. "Erm, training practice?" He ducked his head when Dwalin reached out to clout his ears. "Sorry fer knocking you over, Master Dwalin!" Fíli _squeaked_ , to his embarrassment. Red rising at the back of his neck, the young dwarf began picking himself off the stone floor. "I'll just be going now…"

"Not so fast, Laddie" Dwalin growled, grasping a rounded ear in one hand. "Dori and I just got back and we could use some help unloading the wagon."

"But-" Fíli wiped the pout off his face when Dwalin gave him _the look._ "Yessir, right away sir." Straightening his spine, he followed the other dwarf. There were some arguments that he just couldn't win.

"Be careful with that one, Laddie. It's new." Fíli looked in interest at the crate that he was pulling out of the back of the cart. It was rather heavy, and the shifting contents made thick metallic sounds when he tilted the container.

"What's in it?" Fíli wondered, his fingers inching toward the seam of the lid as he balanced the crate against his hip and the lip of the wagon.

"Ah ah, don't open it!" Dori chided him, sternly. "That lid's a right pain to get back on. We found a good blacksmith to partner with in Minhiriath. Those pieces are his work."

"A blacksmith?" Fíli was a tad affronted at the thought. "But don't we have enough good blacksmiths here in Ered Luin?"

Dori laughed at him, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "That's not it at all, Laddie! This smithy has some techniques that I haven' seen before, and he seems to be a reasonable trade partner."

"New techniques?" Fíli's eyes lit up as he placed the weapons crate behind Dori's market stall. "What do you mean?"

"This smithy claims to have knowledge of dwarvish smithery, but of a kind that I've never seen before. He calls it _dwemer_ , and has even made his own alloy to suit it." Dori thoughtfully rubbed at his beard. "The designs are dwarvish enough, but the make and material are foreign. Strong though. The breastplate that he was wearing took a solid hit from Dwalin and ended up with only a small dent, where he made a better imprint in Dwalin's own plate."

Fíli had stars in his eyes at this point. "Do you think that he'd be interested in teaching me? Uncle Thorin's been so busy lately and hasn't had the time to show me anything new." The blond dwarf stopped his gushing when he noticed the wary look passing between his older kinsmen.

"Fíli, son, I don't think that would be such a good idea. Orsimer is a rather suspicious character, and I don't like the idea of leaving ye alone with him until we get to know his past better."

"What do you mean?" Fíli frowned, disappointment and interest warring behind his blue eyes.

"There are a lot of rumors abou' Orsimer. He lives in a house in the middle of nowhere with only a horse for company and only goes to town for trading purposes."

"That doesn't sound too odd. Maybe he just likes his privacy." Fíli could empathize – sometimes Kíli really got on his nerves.

"That's what I thought too at first, but then we met the man. He dresses from head ter toe in armor and padding, despite the heat of the day. The entire time we spoke with him, he refused to remove his helmet and also refused to share the evening meal with us when we asked. Apparently no one has seen his face since he first appeared, nearly a year ago. If he wasn' such a talented smith, I don' think we would have gone into an agreement with him."

But the mysteriousness of the blacksmith only served to make Fíli more excited about the prospect of taking him as a teacher. "Still, Dori… Could ye think about it? Orsimer was it?" He received a nod. "Orsimer would be able to teach me a lot! And he might be a good fighter, too."

Dori let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, I'll think about it, Laddie. But no promises, and ye definitely won' be Orsimer's apprentice for another year in the very least."

Fíli gaped, a whine escaping his lips. "A whole _year_?"

"At least." Dori nodded. "Now finish up – those crates aren't going to unload themselves."

Fíli obliged, grumbling to himself all the while. Orsimer sounded so cool – a prodigious masked blacksmith that lived alone in the woods that could match Dwalin in a fight. He decided then and there that he would become Orsimer's apprentice one way or another. For better or for worse.

"So this is where you disappeared to, Fíli!" Kíli appeared right when Fíli was stacking the final crate, a saccharine smile on his face.

"Fat lot of good, you are. Leaving me to the wolves." Fíli snorted. Kíli handed him a bowl full of unevenly sliced cucumbers. "What's this for?" He asked, popping one into his mouth with a confused frown.

"I just thought ye might like some chopped vegetables, Master Elf." Fíli spat the green mush at his brother's smug face.

* * *

 **It's good to be back! Not too much of Ahkmar in this chapter, but never fear – she will be back! I had a lot of fun writing the dwarves (especially Kíli and Fíli; kids are the best to write). I don't want the plot to advance too quickly, but I was getting bored of writing only Ahkmar and Ven so I decided to change the point of view around.**

 **As for dwemer being dwarves, I realize that they are not exactly the same species (dwemer being more like mountain-dwelling elves than stocky stone-born dwarves) but for the sake of the story, they are a little more similar than canon depicts them to be. And as far as Ahkmar is concerned, dwemer – and by extension, dwarves – are as much a breed of elf as orsimer are.**

 **According to Tolkien Canon, Thorin is the oldest of the company, putting him at 25 years old when Smaug attacked. This is around six or seven in dwarf years, I reckon. But in Jackson Canon, Balin is the eldest, so I thought it reasonable to put him at nine or ten in dwarf years at the time of the attack.**

 **Anything weird I claim as part of the Author's Universe that I'm creating with this story, but if it concerns you, feel free to point it out – some things don't quite register when I'm in the middle of writing.**

 **Hope you enjoyed this update! As always, I'd love it if you dropped me a review!**

 **-Kohlii**


	9. Whelp

Almost two years had passed since Brookside Hall had made itself a prominent fixture in the Minhiriath countryside, and Ahkmar was bored out of her mind. Aside from the occasional tussle with bandits hoping to gain from her hard work, there were scant few opportunities for her to let her blood run hot in the excitement of battle. Her business was coming along just fine, despite the hermitic persona she had adopted, but it simply wasn't enough.

"Lord Akatosh, please tell me what you want me to do. It's been two years already, and the quest has yet to reveal itself to me." Ahkmar prayed, desperation making her turn to the aspect that had brought her to this lonely world. Akatosh was silent, and Ahkmar clenched her right fist, nails digging crescent moons into her calloused palm through the thin cloth glove. "You wouldn't just dump me here for no reason, right?" Voice rising in despair, she stared helplessly at the bronze statuette before her.

Silence. Then a tiny flicker of light appeared in the jeweled pommel of the tiny sword in the carved dragon's mouth.

"… My Lord?" Her voice was smaller than a child's. The light wavered and winked before it disappeared, but a new feeling of hope rose in Ahkmar's chest at the sight. Akatosh hadn't forgotten her. It just wasn't yet time for her quest.

Licking her chapped green lips, she delicately wrapped Akatosh's shrine in linen and placed it in a drawer to protect it from dust before wandering towards the kitchen. Lunch was a simple affair – a hunk of hard bread, boiled eggs from the chickens she had purchased a few months back, and a few tubers from the garden next to the house. As she chewed thoughtfully, Ahkmar let her mind wander towards her main source of information and entertainment. The dwarves.

It was a small blessing that she had met the dwarves when she had. There had been a bit of a struggle to find willing customers who were not too curious about what lay behind her shadowed helmet. Hiring a middle man like Dori smoothed over the issue considerably. It didn't hurt that they managed to provide her with both a craftswoman's challenge and some combat practice every now and again.

Of all the dwarves she had so far met, she felt the most kinship with the rough, tattooed Dwalin. She could tell that he didn't trust her, not by a long shot, but that did not bother her too much. If she was in his position, she would be suspicious of a stranger that concealed their face as well. But he respected her as a sparring partner and blacksmith, and she saw her own people in his love of fighting and fondness for large, heavy weaponry.

Venrukaan's whinny brought her back to the present and she shoved the last bite of egg into her mouth before pulling up her facescarf. The crunch of wagon wheels rolling over small sticks and uneven stones reached her ears as she rose from her carved stool and placed her Spartan tin plate into a basin to clean later.

When she opened the door, she was greeted with a welcome sight. "It is good to see you well, Masters Dori, Dwalin and Harin." The dwarves clambered down from their positions on and around the horse-drawn wagon, Dori and Harin greeting her with smiles while Dwalin hung back with a familiar spark of suspicion in the line of his face.

Slightly behind Dwalin and to the left was a smallish dwarf that she had not previously seen. He barely reached her waist, standing at full height and possessed cornfield-yellow hair and pale blue eyes. "Who is this young fellow?" Ahkmar gestured to him with a gloved hand.

"Fíli, son of Dís, at your service!" The blond dwarf answered with a rather low bow, his braided moustache bobbing with the motion, making the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.

"And I am Orsimer, at yours." Ahkmar inclined her head and shoulders at him in return, turning her full attention to Dori as she straightened. "The armor that you requested is already packaged and ready to go, but I have a few more swords that need sharpening. It shouldn't take me more than three hours to finish. Do you have the time to wait?"

"Of course, Master Orsimer. Do ye mind if we talk while ye work?" Ahkmar's lips twitched again. Watching them mistake her gender never failed to amuse.

"Not at all, Master Dori. Right this way. There's tea in the kitchen if the rest of you want to get comfortable." Ahkmar led the jovial white-haired dwarf to the side of the house, picking up a dull blade and holding it to the grindstone, her booted feet pumping at the turning pedals. "What was it that you wanted to talk about?" She raised her voice over the screeching of protesting metal, keeping her eyes on her work.

"Master Orsimer, we have been working together for a year now, have we not?" Dori sounded a little nervous, but he plowed on after receiving a confused nod from Ahkmar. "I have admired yer work and wondered if ye might be interested in taking on an apprentice. I think it would be a worthy investment, making sure that yer techniques don't die out and ye can up yer production as well."

Ahkmar bit her lip, worrying at it with her tusks. "Taking on an apprentice? I never really considered it." But there were _too many_ secrets she had to keep, and it would be _too easy_ for an apprentice to uncover them. "Why do you ask?"

"The dwarf I brought with me, Fíli, saw your work a year ago and ever since then he has been pestering me to introduce him to you." His words were harsh, but his voice and face belied a sort of fondness reserved for younger kin.

"Don't you have blacksmiths back in the Blue Mountains that he could learn from?" The grindstone's screeching stopped momentarily as she ran a blade of grass over the edge of the sword to check its sharpness. Satisfied at the clean cut, she started grinding down the other side.

"He has been apprenticing to his uncle for the last twelve years, but recently he has become too busy to teach Fíli much."

"And I'm not busy?" Ahkmar offered Dori a flat stare.

"That's not what I meant." Dori waved his hands in a pacifying manner. "Fíli is a bright young lad, and he's already educated in the basics. Thorin does not have much more ter teach him, and I think it would be good for the lad to take on a new teacher."

But for the _schrr-whirr_ of the grindstone, the heaviness of the thoughtful silence that settled around of them would have been smothering. Ahkmar's hands went through their practiced motions as she grinded through the shrinking pile of blades. Finally, when Dori began to fidget, Ahkmar opened her mouth to give him his answer. "I'll… I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask of ye, Master Orsimer. Would ye like to speak to the lad, yerself?" Dori half-rose off the wooden stool he had seated himself on.

"Hmm. Yes. I think that would be a good idea. Bring him here, would you?"

"Aye, that I will, Master Orsimer." Dori stood and stretched before ambling off towards the kitchen. Half a blade later, Fíli exited Brookside, the midday sun casting half of his lightly bearded face into shadow.

Ahkmar looked at him in newfound interest, examining his bare arms and hands for evidence of muscle and callouses. Mollified, she looked back at his face. "Tell me about yourself, Whelp."

Fíli sat himself down on the stool that Dori had recently vacated, tense in his shoulders and the line of his mouth. "I am seventy five years old and I have been training as a blacksmith under my uncle for the past twelve years."

Ahkmar started at his admission of age, stealthily examining his ears. Perhaps these dwarves were more mer than men, after all. But aside from their disproportionally large size, the ears were quite well-rounded. Clearing her throat, she interjected "and do you have any knowledge of combat?"

"Aye, I do!" At the question, he smiled a bit. "I'm quite skilled with short swords."

"Good." Ahkmar nodded. "You have to know how to fight before you can master the art of weaponry."

"Does that mean you'll teach me, Master Orsimer?" The eager note in his voice made her chuckle softly before she caught herself and changed her expression to a stern frown.

 _Damn, the boy's growing on me_. "How about a trial period, Whelp? I'm not sure if you're worth my time."

His face transformed from nervous to excited as his knees and arms pulled in and his chest puffed out. "I won't let you down, Master Orsimer!" He sprung off the stool, breaking into a sprint towards the house. "He said yes, Master Dori, Dwalin! _He said yes!_ "

"Hey, I said I'll give you a chance, Whelp!" Ahkmar yelled after the childish dwarf, rising to her feet. "I might still say no!" Horse hooves clopped on the packed earth and Venrukaan's warm breath whuffed over her shoulder. He gave her a look and pointedly lipped her hair. "Not you too, Ven! You know how hard that is to wash out." He spat the wet black strands onto her tunic and she offered him a half-hearted glare.

Dwalin walked out of the house, leaning against the doorframe. She raised an eyebrow at his attempt to look intimidating. The crown of his head hardly reached her breastbone, and he was the tallest of the dwarves that she had met. "Ye'd best be careful with that boy. He's young and stupid, but he's also my kinsman. If anything happens, it's on yer head."

Ahkmar sighed at him, using her body language to convey a small portion of the exasperation that she was feeling. "You've fought me and know my strength, Master Dwalin. I think I can keep the whelp from getting into too much trouble. Plus, the apprenticeship's not permanent. I just might send him back home with you." She contemplatively squeezed the handle of the sword she was holding to the grindstone. "I'll have to talk to Master Dori about that." Tonguing the tip of her left tusk, she finalized the edge of the last blade. Dwalin gruffly moved aside to allow her to walk through the tall doorframe.

"Master Orsimer," Dori greeted her with a warm smile, placing the mug of tea he had been nursing onto the table with a muted clunk. "I heard the news from Fíli. Yer taking him on?"

"As a _trial_ _apprentice_." Ahkmar emphasized, rubbing at the ridge bridge of her nose beneath her helmet. Pulling a stool to the table, she sat down and poured a steaming cup of amber liquid for herself. "Your caravan is traveling further south after picking up goods from me, right?" At Dori's nod, she continued. "Leave Fíli with me. When you pass Brookside again on your way north, Fíli will have either proven himself to me or he will return with you to the Blue Mountains."

"How long do I have?" Fíli asked, a determined frown on his face.

"Hmm… Considering the trade route, I'd give ye a week and a half." Dori answered. "That sounds like a fair decision, Master Orsimer. I hope that the lad lives up to yer expectations."

Ahkmar absently stirred at the cooling cup of chamomile, belatedly realizing that she couldn't drink it in front of the three small men. Maybe she didn't want the lad to live up to her expectations.

Dwalin clapped Fíli hard on the shoulder, making him stumble forward. "Take care, Laddie." He turned to Ahkmar then, most of the emotion erased from his face. "He brought a few things with him."

Ahkmar nodded, gesturing for the dwarves to follow her. "I have a spare room, though it isn't much to look at." She opened a simple wooden door at the end of the hall, revealing a small space occupied by a wooden bedframe with a sagging sawdust mattress and a short dresser pushed up against the wall. A little shuttered window hung above the dresser, strips of muted sunlight illuminating dust motes that swirled in the displaced air. "Do what you want with it; it's yours for the week." Cracking her knuckles, she grabbed a spare crate from the storeroom and wandered outside to pack the finished swords.

After a moment, Dori joined her. "It's a good thing yer doin' fer the boy, ye know." He hefted the crate into his arms after she sealed it. "The lad needs a chance to grow up, find out who he is without bein' weighed down by all the expectations of his mother and clan."

"You're not doing a very good job of talking him up." Ahkmar pointed out with a wry grin, opening the wooden doors of the wagon. Dori muttered a quick word of thanks when she used her superior height to stack the crate on top of the others.

"It's his responsibility to convince ye to take him on, not mine."

Ahkmar coolly watched Dori close and secure the iron latches. "He's got a ten-day to make me say yes, and I'm rather hard to please. You might be going home with the same number you started with."

"And if that happens, that happens. Like I said, it's the lad's responsibility." Dori shrugged, tugging lightly on the straps connecting their stocky roan pony to the trade wagon.

"Well, you'd better get going, then. Don't rush back on my account." The sun was still rather high in the sky, bribed by the long days of summer. Enough light to safely see the dwarves to the next village, Ahkmar noted satisfactorily. Dwalin and Fíli exited the house, clearly having had carried Fíli's belongings into the spare room. At the stern look on the balding dwarf's face, Ahkmar sighed. "Don't worry, Master Dwalin, no harm will come to your little dwarfling." She extended a gloved hand, firmly grasping his forearm when he offered his own.

An affronted look crossed Fili's visage. "I'm _not_ little!"

Ahkmar pointedly gestured at his height versus her own and he flushed.

"But I'm still not a dwarfling." His cheeks puffed out as he scowled, stretching his braided moustache.

Ahkmar hummed, hiding a smile behind her scarf. "Your expression says otherwise, Whelp."

"Not a whelp either." Dori looked on in delighted amusement at the casual banter.

"Ah ah! Who's the master?" This apprenticeship _could_ be entertaining, while she waited for Akatosh to reveal to her his purpose.

"You are…" Fíli muttered sullenly. "Damn, what did I sign up for again?"

"Language, Whelp!" Ahkmar warned, offering the other dwarves a wave as they rolled out.

Fíli squeaked in indignation at the orc in disguise. Ahkmar smirked back under layers of cloth.

* * *

 **Part of the reason why I write in accents for the dwarves is because it helps me add some character, but the other reason is that it helps emphasize how differently Ahkmar speaks. Since the story is written around Ahkmar, she will have a "normal" accent (correct spelling, odd phrasing at the minimum) but all the other races will have varying accents. The dwarves' accent I have been (very) loosely basing after Hagrid's West Country accent in the Harry Potter series, drawing from rural English roots. I've already decided on the hobbits having a mainstream British way of speaking, since they all seem like puffy little Englishmen by the way they act and dress. The elves I'm still not settled on, but I'm thinking of giving them exceedingly formal language in an effort to contrast them from the more informal dwarvish speech. I am quite open to suggestions and alternate ideas, however.**

 **Thank you for all your continued support, readers and reviewers – it keeps me wanting to take time out of my busy schedule to write for you guys!**

 **Until next time,**

 **-Kohlii**


	10. Teaching

"Come, Whelp. I've someone you need to meet."

Fíli's large nose wrinkled in confusion. "I thought ye lived alone, Master Orsimer."

Ahkmar laughed softly, her boots crunching softly over the pebbles she had scattered around the house's foundation to discourage weeds. She did not give the young dwarf an answer, however. He nearly stumbled over himself in his haste to follow.

She stopped at the small but sturdily built barn, pulling open the wide wooden doors. A black and white bovine with a shaggy coat brayed at her and she placed a hand on her snout. "Hush, Peyt."

"A cow?" Fíli raised an eyebrow at her, unimpressed.

"No, Child. The cow is just for sustenance. This is who I wanted you to meet." The heavily clothed orc gestured to a monster of a horse, his coat black as night and large muscles rippling beneath his shining hide. Large, intelligent brown eyes examined him from head to toe, making the dwarf feel very small. "This is Venrukaan, my _zeymahzin_. He has been beside me through the worst and best of trials. He is no mere horse. He is family."

Fíli nodded mutely, a tremor running through his spine at the growl her voice had dipped into near the end. Ahkmar held his gaze through her shadowed helmet visor for a moment before breaking it with a nod. "Venruukan is all that I have left of my homeland."

Fíli swallowed, turning to the foreign equine. "Nice to meet you, er, Venn-rookin."

"Ven. Ruu. Kahn." Ahkmar emphasized. _By the Nine, if he struggles this much with Ven's name how much would he butcher my own?_

"Venruucan?"

"Ven. Just Ven." Ahkmar brought a gloved hand up to rub at the bridge of her nose. "Don't hurt yourself, Kid."

Fíli reddened, his earlier fear forgotten. "Ven, then. What tongue is that?"

Ahkmar smiled at the question, letting the mirth seep into her voice when she answered. "It's called the _Thu'um_ , or the Voice. It's the language of my soul."

"Of yer soul?" Fíli wondered, raising an eyebrow at the smithy.

Ahkmar stiffened, muffling a curse before it passed her lips. "I think that's enough talking. Come, let me see what you're capable of." The doors to the barn Ahkmar left open to allow the beasts within out to pasture. Fíli followed her around to the side of the house. When he saw the half-forged swords hanging on brass rings, he began to salivate.

"Are ye going to teach me how to make the dwemer warhammers? Short swords? Axes?" His blue eyes shone brighter with every question.

Ahkmar snorted, handing him a chunk of dark, heavy metal and a few strips of leather. "Make me an iron dagger."

"But I already know how to do that. I made my first dagger when I was thirty five!" Fíli whined in protest, resting his fisted hands on his hips.

Ahkmar shook the reagents at him pointedly. "Then you shouldn't need any instruction from me. You have three hours."

Fíli still had a pout on his lips when he took the materials, barely preventing himself from stalking to the forge to begin heating it up.

"Wipe that frown off your face, Whelp." Ahkmar growled, irritated. "I didn't ask for a brat to babysit."

A shudder ran down his spine again at the guttural growl and he quickly straightened his features. "Yessir."

Ahkmar gave him one last cursory glance and turned, entering the house. By the time the boy was done, he would likely be hungry. And she had to eat too. Alone.

* * *

Fíli was a little nervous. He had gotten too comfortable, too fast with Orsimer. The darkly clad man's silent but jovial manner had all but disappeared in the last hour. And he was making him make an _iron dagger_. No teaching, nothing new, nothing even rather challenging for that matter. Fíli grimaced angrily as he pounded perhaps a little too hardly on the hot piece of metal, making it bend awkwardly over the lip of the forge. Fíli bit back a curse and cast a nervous glance around the yard.

The monstrous black horse flicked an ear in his direction, but his master was still in the house. Fíli breathed an audible sigh of relief and turned the dagger to hammer out the kink. He set his thick eyebrows in a determined glare. He would make the best iron dagger that Orsimer had ever seen, and he'd be so impressed that he'd _have_ to teach him something new.

Once the blade was hammered into the right shape, he dipped it into a bucket of water. The red heat of the metal faded to grey-black with a _hiss_. Pulling it from the clear liquid, he inserted the base of the blade into the pommel he had shaped earlier. With leather strips, he bound it tightly for security and comfort.

"You've been working hard, Whelp." The rough, gravelly voice of the tall man startled him out of his concentration, making him jump slightly. "Sharpen that, and then you can come inside and eat."

Fíli nodded, bringing the newly forged blade over to the grinding wheel. He pumped at the pedals with his feet, holding the dagger fast to the stone by its handle. Orsimer's gloved hand tugged his off the machine. "What?" He uttered confusedly.

"Not like that. You'll make it uneven." He pulled a spare set of leather gloves from a box beside the house. "Put these on." He leaned over Fíli, using his longer arms to guide the dwarf's hand placement. "You want to hold the tip, _here,_ and the hilt, _here_." Then he pressed the very edge of the blade beneath Fíli's fingers to the still stone. "You want to make sure that it is even lengthwise and at a very small upward angle, like this. Otherwise you get a weak, notched blade." He released Fíli's hands. "Now get the stone rolling again and do it right this time."

Fíli followed his instructions, guiding the dagger carefully until the edges were perfectly tapered, if not a bit thin from overly wasted metal.

Orsimer examined it when the dwarf passed it to his gloved hands, giving a short nod of approval. "Good work, Whelp. Let's get you something to eat."

A gurgling growl rose from Fíli's stomach, coaxing a blush to his round cheeks. Orsimer chuckled, placing a plate of boiled potatoes and venison in front of the young dwarf. "Eat up." Fíli dug into his meal with gusto. Orsimer cooly regarded him from a seat in the corner of the room.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for all the positive reactions to this story. I apologize for the slow updates, but I hope that you stick with me! I'm hoping to get through the apprenticeship quickly enough so we can start on the quest, but I have to develop the trust and companionship between Ahkmar and Fíli before I get around to that.**

 **For all who reviewed, I read each and every one of them and they give me the motivation to keep writing. Until next time,**

 **Kohlii**

* * *

 **Thu'um**

 **Peyt – Flower**

 **Zeymahzin – Companion**


	11. Milk Drinkers

Fíli sputtered awake through a bucketful of frigid water. "Up and at 'em, Whelp. The sun waits for no one." The blonde dwarf sat up, astonished, glaring at the taller man. "And drag that mattress outside, too. You'll have to air it out lest it molds."

Fíli glanced out the small window with an irritated scowl. "It's hardly morning!" He protested. Orsimer cuffed the back of his head and placed his gloved hands on his hips.

"You can't get much done in the dark. We have to make sure that every drop of light counts. Or do you not want to learn my trade?" The dusty grey light streaming through the window outlined Orsimer's posture, reminding Fíli of his stern mother, Dís. All fighting spirit fled from him and he bellied up like a submissive dog.

"I'll bring th' mattress outside, Master Orsimer." Fíli squeaked, clutching at the sopping straw like a lifeline. The imposing figure left, and Fíli let loose a breath that he hadn't known he had been holding. Aye, that man was rather scary when he wanted to be!

By the time Fíli hung his bedding over a limb from a nearby tree and chewed down the bread and cheese set aside for his morning meal, Orsimer had already started smelting some ore.

"Ye do this yerself, too?" Fíli asked, brushing his damp hands on his tunic.

"The best way to make sure that something is done right is to do it yourself. The quality of the metal you use is as important as the forging technique. Too many impurities make for a brittle blade." Orsimer turned the shadowed eye holes of his helm to face the young dwarf. "Come, I will show you how to separate the metal from the rock."

* * *

Ahkmar watched the dwarf's face carefully, pleased when she registered the honest interest he harbored in the smelting process that she explained to him. Satisfied with his understanding of the timing and heat requirements, the orc grabbed a bucket of iron ore from the back of the shed. "See how much metal you can extract from this."

The dwarf pouted slightly again, but nodded. A touch of a frown ghosted across Ahkmar's face before she twitched it away. The lad was probably used to getting what he wanted. She worried at her bottom lip for a moment before crossing her arms. She'd have to beat that out of him if he was going to ever learn anything.

"I'll be back…" Here she paused for a moment to judge the sun's height. "Two hours before sundown. If you finish with the ore, you can chop up some of those logs into firewood. The food's in the pantry, as usual. Help yourself to the midday meal." Ahkmar stopped by the house to grab a few throwing axes and a hunting knife before whistling sharply for Venrukaan.

The horse trotted briskly to her side and she rubbed his jaw absently before walking into the wood, Venrukaan picking his way expertly around the rocks and trunks in her wake. Ahkmar's eyes flicked to the left and right, examining the leaf litter carefully for disturbances. Breathing deeply, she tested the air. Nothing. Shrugging, she delved deeper into the forested area, setting a few small game snares as she walked softly forward.

The wet leaves squelched beneath her boots, darkening the treated leather with water stains. Ahkmar wrinkled her nose in annoyance, but the boiled deer skin kept the damp away from her woolen socks. Abruptly she stopped, dropping into a crouch and pressing a hand to Venrukaan's barrel-like torso. Her fingers traced the scarred bark of the oak tree before her. It was stripped clean and, judging by the glittering sap left behind on her fingertips, rather fresh. The orcish womer dropped to the ground to examine it closely, picking out abnormal scatterings and pressings of leaves. Breathing deeply, she scented the wet hair of the elk, a tiny smirk appearing on her dark green lips.

Staying in a crouched position, Ahkmar followed the fresh tracks of her prey, moving quickly and silently through the underbrush. Hearing a whuff of air, she froze, peering through the leaves ahead of her. There he was, an elk nearly three quarters the size of Venrukaan with an impressive velvety rack proudly sprouting from his crown. Ahkmar licked her lips, slowly pulling a hand axe from her belt. Reaching back, she took aim, sending a quick prayer to Akatosh, and flicked the wedged blade forward, releasing it briskly so that it spun to strike the beast firmly in its underjaw.

Letting out a gurgle of pain, the magnificent creature bolted from the clearing, Ahkmar and Venrukaan following in hot pursuit. It was easy to track. The heady scent of the beast's fear filled Ahkmar's nostrils and its lifeblood and frantic running left tracks so apparent even a milk drinker could easily pick them out. The wound was mortal and deep, so it wasn't long before orc found elk, eyes rolling in its death throes as it lay against a large rock, too weak to flee any longer. Pulling out her hunting knife, Ahkmar cautiously approached the animal, keeping a wary eye on the wide, sharp antlers that it boasted. A weak toss of its crown was all it managed before a look of defeat overcame it and it laid down its great head. Ahkmar angled her long knife and quickly plunged it into the elk's breast, piercing its heart. It let out a final sigh as its eyes gained a dull, glassy sheen. Ahkmar murmured her thanks to Malacath as the pool of lifeblood at the base of the rock began to coagulate.

Removing and cleaning her throwing axe, she stuck it into her belt before gutting the large deer with her more dexterous hunting knife. Heaving the heavy carcass into her arms, she secured it to Venrukaan's saddle. Ven, used to this practice by now, stood patiently as she tightened the ropes, unbothered by the thick, coppery scent. Leaving the entrails in a haphazard pile for scavengers, Ahkmar led her horse back to Brookside.

It was then that she heard the yelling.

"Gonna split yer belly like an old woman's purse!"

Ahkmar sliced through the ropes securing Venrukaan's burden and sprinted back to Brookside, ears peaked and eyes peeled for any sign of her apprentice's condition. It had been quite a while since the last bandit raid and she'd grown a false sense of security. Growling angrily to herself, she cursed her small hunting arsenal. Only four short throwing axes and a small hunting knife equipped her person. Shoving away any thoughts of failure, she focused all of her energy on getting to Brookside.

Bursting through the tree line, her eyes flicked frantically around as her fingers pulled two small axes from her belt. _There!_ The short wheat-haired dwarf stood at a crouch, his back to the house with three human bandits at his front and sides. A fourth bandit lie on the ground nearby, his eyes blank and dim with death. A macabre smile stretched across his neck, a steady trickle of blood still weeping from the wound.

Fíli looked worse for wear, one arm dangling uselessly to his side and a patch of red staining his tunic just below his sternum. Ahkmar saw red, letting loose a loud yell to gain the attention of the lowlifes. Venrukaan whinnied in response, rearing and displaying to the men his sharp hooves. New life seemed to fill Fíli's veins, and he lunged at a distracted bandit with his short blade, opening up a deep wound just below the man's armpit. He gurgled as blood filled his lung, staggering back and swinging his sword towards the dwarf's head in one last, desperate attack. Straw-like hair fluttered to the ground, and Ahkmar felt her breath catch, but the young dwarf had ducked out of the way to bodily slam his opponent's chest.

Coming up on her own opponent, Ahkmar pushed away all but the locational thoughts of Fíli. Her opponent was a giant of a man, his cheekbones parallel with the crown of her head, and his shoulders a handbreadth wider than her own. A nasty grin stretched the scar on his upper lip as he bore his large axe down towards her. "Got ourselves a hero, do we?" His deep voice was full of malicious intent.

Ahkmar's mouth quirked upwards beneath her helm as she spun away from his swing, bringing her smaller, more dexterous axes around to hack at the man's grip. With a curse, he shifted his hands further up the staff of the weapon, Ahkmar digging a few good notches in the wooden shaft.

The bandit was a skilled fighter, however, and he did not drop his weapon. Using the momentum from the failed strike, he spun like a berserker and the great axe came back again, faster this time. Not quite expecting that sort of maneuver, Ahkmar jumped back a second too late, feeling the metal blade jar painfully against her side. Thankfully, she had gotten into the habit of always wearing armor. It would bruise quite impressively, but bruises she could deal with.

With a cry of rage that sounded more animalistic than human, Ahkmar flung one of her short axes towards the man, her vision flickering red as she drew upon the inner anger that all orsimer harbored beneath the surface for use in times like these. When he dodged she followed up with the second one, grabbing the man's great axe in his distraction. They grappled for control of the weapon. The two were about evenly matched in strength, but the man's grip was stronger. Putting her back flush against the bandit's chest, she rammed her helm into his face. A satisfying crunch and a strangled grunt of pain told her that she had broken his nose. His fingers loosened momentarily at the injury, but that was all she needed.

With little fanfare, she wrenched the weapon from his grip, kicking him back with her booted foot when he attempted to grab at her. The red haze still lingered at the edge of her vision, and she did not hesitate when she decapitated the man with his own weapon. Eyes flicking over to her companions' battles, she was moving again before his head hit the floor.

Venrukaan was doing well enough, holding off the bandit with his sharp hooves and intimidating posture. Fíli on the other hand had developed a limp, favoring his left leg as he did all he could to defend himself from his opponent's relentless attacks. Ahkmar raced towards him, leaning forward and readying her stolen axe. She yet out a wordless yell, almost a battle cry, lost in her rage. The bandit turned to look at her. The surprise in his wide blue eyes would have made her laugh in any other situation. The battle axe sunk easily into the trunk of his body, the momentum of her sprint almost cleaving him entirely in two.

"Master Orsimer?" Fíli looked at her with a mixture of awe and fear.

Ahkmar disregarded him for now, turning her attentions instead on her mount's opponent. "Oy, you bleeding milk drinker!" She dropped the large axe and pulled the last two throwing axes from her belt. Preoccupied with avoiding Venrukaan's sharp hooves, the final bandit did not react to her insult. Growling, she reached back and hurled the throwing axe towards his broad back. The well cared for blade sunk easily through the boiled leather, slicing muscle and lodging itself into one of his ribs. Without preamble, Ahkmar threw the final axe. It met a similar fate, though this time it lodged itself into his spine and his legs collapsed under him like a puppet with its strings cut.

She supposed that was as apt an explanation as any.

Venrukaan let his front hooves fall heavily onto the downed bandit, crushing his skull like a melon. Fíli winced audibly behind her. Ahkmar turned, the red in her vision finally faded away. "I caught dinner…?"

* * *

 **I got a new apartment, so when I'm not working (I work at a chocolate shop in a high tourist area, so it's a rather fun job, if somewhat exhausting) I've been moving my stuff and fixing up the new place. Ugh so busy! I've had the majority of this written up for a few weeks, but I needed to get the final touches on it before posting. Plus moving = no internet (except for some 4G on my phone, I suppose. But my data plan isn't the best so I'd rather not waste GB posting.)**

 **On the bright side, around the writer's block I've suffered on this chapter, I've written another few chapters ahead – most likely they'll be chapters 15 and 16. So those should be out fairly quickly once I get to that point. Thank you so much for your reviews and support. Y'all're the reason I write. Love you!**

 **PS: Do you guys like the teaching intervals? I don't want to timeskip too much, but I do want to get into more of the quest action, preferably by chapter 20 at the very latest. If there's something you want Fíli and Ahkmar to experience or discuss – preferably an event that offers some form of character or relationship development, I'm all ears. Or rather eyes – I read the reviews after all!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Kohlii**


	12. Healing

Fíli looked at Orsimer with wide eyes. "C-cannibal!" he accused, wavering between him and the corpse on the ground.

For his credit, Orsimer blinked owlishly for a moment before letting out a startled bark of laughter. "Not the bandits, for Malacath's sake! I caught a stag in the woods. He's just beyond the treeline."

Despite himself, Fíli let his shoulders fall in relief. He regretted it almost immediately when the pain from his injuries jabbed at him with a vengeance. "Urrk..!"

"Where are you hurt, Whelp?" Orsimer looked him over with a heavy dose of concern in his posture. "Let's get you fixed up. Dinner can wait."

Fíli leaned heavily on his master as he ushered him into the house, giving one last glance towards the bloodied ruin of the yard. Venrukaan stood casually in the middle of the mess, chewing at a patch of grass that had been left mostly undisturbed in the fighting. The young dwarf shivered. So many mysteries surrounded the hermitic blacksmith that taught him. Would a day come when _he_ would be the one bleeding out in the yard, trampled by an overgrown horse?

* * *

Ahkmar glanced back at her diminutive apprentice, taking in his stiff posture. Some of it might be from pain, sure, but he was obviously shaken by the bandit attack. "I'm sorry, Whelp." She gently pushed him down to sit on a wooden stool before walking to the nearby woodstove to boil a pot of water. "It's been so long since the last attack that I've gotten lax. I should have at least left Ven behind." The last part she muttered to herself.

Washing her hands of grime with some of the hot water and a bar of soap, she turned to her patient. "Can you handle taking off your tunic, or do I have to cut it off of you?"

"I think I can remove it, if ye help me get it around me arm." Fíli answered, motioning towards the dead limb attached to his right shoulder.

Ahkmar nodded, untying the strings that tightened the garment over his upper chest. Slowly, they worked together to take the dwarf's top off. Fíli cringed at odd intervals. It was painful to watch, and she silently vowed to do a better job of protecting the childlike dwarf.

For a young fellow, Fíli had quite the hairy chest. In another situation, Ahkmar might have laughed at the absurdity of it. As it was, the wetly matted hair just below his ribs made her humor lodge uncomfortably at the back of her throat. The orsimer bustled over to the stove, dipping a clean rag into the impatiently boiling water. When she returned to her charge's side, she looked into his eyes. The pupils were dilated, but not unevenly so. She nodded, no sign of concussion. "This might hurt a bit. I have to clean your wound to see what it looks like."

Fair warning given, she began delicately dabbing and wiping at the coagulated blood. She glanced at Fíli's face a few times, but although his eyes were clenched shut he did not appear at risk of passing out anytime soon. When most of the blood was removed, Ahkmar frowned. The thick, straw-colored hair around the gash was obscuring her view. "One moment." She murmured, rising.

The orsimer returned with a small, sharp dagger and a needle and thread. Seating herself on another stool, she went to work shaving away the hair around the wound with the dagger, whetting it with a small bowl of hot water. Once she was satisfied, she cleaned the new bald patch and, with a quick apology to Fíli, gingerly spread it open to peer at his insides.

As Fíli cried out in pain, she sighed in relief. The slice was long but shallow, and nothing vital had been punctured. The orsimer sterilized the needle and threaded it with the strong, black thread that she had purchased for this reason. "Take a good swig of this." Ahkmar handed Fíli a flask, which he sniffed, then threw back. She busied herself with rubbing the area around the edge of his wound with a numbing salve. With no warning, she stuck the needle into his skin, stitching the edges of the wound together. He choked at the pain, then drank in earnest, fingers white against the metal flask.

Ahkmar tied off the last stitch, looking cautiously into Fíli's face. His eyes were even more dilated now, but his face was relaxed. She scowled, but couldn't really bring herself to be mad. "You've gone and gotten yourself drunk, now have you?"

A vacant smile spread across the blond dwarf's cheeks.

"Let's have a look at that arm of yours, then." Ahkmar grunted, grasping at his right side. Perhaps a little rougher than was strictly called for, but he only blinked owlishly at the pain. Feeling at the bones in his wrist and arm, she felt her lips turn up in a small smile. This kid looked pretty beat up, but he was actually rather lucky. No breaks or fractures, just some good bruises that would fade over the next few weeks. But why couldn't he move…? "Aha!" Ahkmar's finger sank a little too deeply into a pocket in his shoulder joint. "Dislocated. Give me one moment." She rotated the limb carefully, feeling for the right position. Then _pop, crack!_

"Auggh!" The pain must have gotten through to even his brandy-addled brain. He clutched clumsily at his shoulder with his left hand, a few tears squeezing out of clenched eyelids as he sobered up slightly.

"There, good as new. Now for the leg." Ahkmar helped Fíli out of his leggings, leaving him to sit on the wooden stool in only a loincloth. She looked over both of his legs with a clinical interest. On his right leg, there was only minor bruising. That would probably yellow in a day or two. The other leg, though, had direr symptoms. His foot was turned at an odd angle, and there was a good deal of localized swelling about a hand span below his knee. The green-skinned womer whistled lowly. "Looks like you did a number on that."

Fíli shivered slightly in the cool of the dimming afternoon. His eyes were starting to dilate again as the pain faded and the moment of soberness was pushed away with the high alcohol content in his bloodstream. "Whaadyeh meeen?" He slurred, the words thickly dripping past his lips like molasses.

"You broke your minor shinbone, Whelp." She felt around the swelled lump with cool hands. "It's not as bad as it could be, though. A few pinched nerves, of course. Some swelling and internal bleeding. But it feels like a clean break, far as I can tell." She peered at the lad's pained face through black lashes. Licking her lips, she muttered " _Laas… Yah Nir_ ". The red haze of life overlapped Fíli's form. This close, she could make out the darker, bricklike lines of his skeleton beneath the familiar scarlet hue. "Aye, it's clean alright, if not a bit twisted." She muttered.

Standing once again, she picked out a few strong sticks from the firewood pile. Hurrying back to Fíli, she bit her lip in a silent apology before maneuvering his leg back into place. He whimpered in pain, but did not move overmuch. Something to be thankful for, she supposed, as she wrapped the splint with bandages, making sure to wrap loosely around the thickest part in anticipation of the increased swelling he would be experiencing in the next few days. His ankle, she wrapped as well. It was sprained, but unbroken. Something she was quick to confirm with a cursory inspection under the influence of her Shout.

After cleaning his stomach of the numbing salve, she smeared it with a strong-smelling antibacterial poultice and wrapped it with clean bandages.

By this point, the lad was struggling to keep himself upright. She sighed. "Time to get you to bed, Whelp." Placing her hands on his ribs, she picked him up as easily as a child would a doll, leaning his weight against her taller and broader form. Taking care with his splinted leg, she carried him down the hall to his room, before stopping with a frown. The damn mattress was still outside. "I suppose you can use mine for now." She muttered, backtracking to her own door. She laid him down on the bed, noting that he was drifting in and out of consciousness at this point. "Go to sleep, you'll be fine." She soothed him, smoothing away a few stray hairs that had matted across his forehead in a cold sweat.

As an afterthought, she piled some furs beneath his leg. Keeping it above his heart would hopefully prevent the swelling from becoming overly severe.

With one last look at her bandaged apprentice, she retreated to the kitchen, pulling off her breastplate and tunic on the way. After rubbing a generous dose of bruise balm onto the black-red-purple bruise that took up most of her side, she wriggled back into her tunic and, with Venrukaan's help, hauled the deer's carcass inside. Leaving it on the long table, she retreated to the stables to give Venrukaan a much-needed rub down. Thankfully, of the three of them Ven had the least amount of injuries. Just a few nicks and scratches that would heal up on their own. Exhausted, she didn't bother with worrying about Fíli's mattress. Instead, the orc burrowed herself into a pile of straw, feeling the welcome heat of her mount as he laid down next to her.

* * *

Though he was more than a little inebriated, under the influence of strong pain and even stronger brandy, Fíli's mind groggily processed what had been going on around him. In the process of healing his wounds, Master Orsimer had removed his gloves. Strangely, Fíli didn't recall ever seeing even a scrap of skin on the elusive smith, so his eyes had greedily taken in the sight. Maybe it was the dim lighting of the room, but instead of the pale, tan, or even brown skin tone that he had expected of a tall human male, his hands looked… green?

* * *

 **Thu'um**

 **Laas Yah Nir – Life Seek Hunt (Aura Whisper Shout)**

* * *

 **I believe that there has been some confusion. Fíli and Ahkmar will not – I repeat, WILL NOT be paired together. Their relationship, while strong, will never go beyond master and student. There are many reasons for this, chiefly of which is Ahkmar considers him as more of a child than anything and she is not attracted to children. If there is romance, which may or may not happen (I'm leaning more towards the 'may not' at this point in time) it would probably be with one of the older dwarves. Most likely Dwalin, though with his age and hatred of orcs, it would be hard to convincingly write him in as a love interest. And romantic stories tend to get a little boring and cheesy, so if there is any romance it will be very** _ **very**_ **minor, and will not have much impact on the plot of the story. Which begs the question; if it has little impact on the plot, why include it in the first place?**

 **As always, thank you for reading and reviewing, and thank you for all your wonderful suggestions of scenes that I could include. It seems that a lot of you are impatient about Ahkmar's revealing of race and gender. As it is, I'm impatient as well, considering I've already written it up in at least two different ways in the last few months. But although we haven't gotten there yet, I've dropped a few subliminal hints here and there. (Isn't it strange how Fíli refers to Ahkmar as male, but always compares her to his mother instead of Thorin?) But you'll have to be patient for just a little longer. We have some more trust to build up before Fíli takes the hint. Probably. Don't want him to murder her in his shock, do we? That would make for a very short story.**

 **PS: I have posted a companion story to this called** _ **Being Green**_ **. It will be updated sporadically with little parody drabbles. Mostly humorous things that I want to include, but won't because they'd ruin the mood of the story. So if you want a good little laugh, take a look!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Kohlii**


	13. Decision

The next few days passed agonizingly slowly for the master smith and her apprentice. Ahkmar forced Fíli to remain bedridden, supplying him with the necessary materials to change his bandages. The orc's own injuries had faded entirely after the second day. Her race's constitution was amplified by the dragon blood that ran through her veins, making her heal quicker than most. Every now and again the mustached dwarf gave her long looks, lingering thoughtfully on her gloved hands.

"We don't have much time left until Master Dori returns and I have to make my decision about you." Ahkmar sat down on a stool she had pulled up to Fíli's bed. She had since moved him to his own room. "You should be up for some practical training tomorrow, so long as you remain seated. Your arms are fine now, yes? It's just the leg that is giving you trouble?"

Fíli nodded, propping himself up on the heels of his hands. "I do still want to train with ye, Master Orsimer."

Ahkmar gave him a dubious look, hidden beneath the shadows of her helm. "If you want to train with me as a smithy, I'll have to teach you as a warrior first. Can't have every odd bandit raid result in nearly an entire week of no progress."

Fíli bristled. "It was four to one odds, and they caught me off guard!" He protested.

Ahkmar raised an eyebrow, responding in a dry tone of voice. "When I was your age, I could easily match twice that."

"Me- me age?" Fíli sputtered indignantly. "I'll have ye know I'm seventy and five years old."

Ahkmar's jaw relaxed in shock. "S-seventy… And yet so young?" Compared to the mannish norm of ages, she was no spring chicken herself, at the ripe age of thirty and five. "You must have some Altmer blood, somewhere down the line." She murmured thoughtfully to herself, eyeing his long locks.

"Altmer?"

"A commonly blonde, tall elvish race. Though you definitely did not inherit the tall portion of the blood."

"I am no _elf_ " Fíli spat. "And I'm not short either." His anger was so exaggerated that Ahkmar found herself suppressing a surprised flinch.

"What is it that you have against elves, Boy?" The orsimer felt slightly affronted.

"They're filthy, lying scum. Not worth the dust on my boots." The more the young – old? – dwarf talked, the more parallels that Ahkmar drew against the Stormcloak zealots. It was a strange feeling. Even though she never held much affection towards the xenophobic warriors under Jarl Ulfric, a small smile pulled at the corners of her lips at the familiar attitude.

But still, she could not allow this rather personal insult to stand. Though they were often disregarded and lumped in with the beast races, elvish blood ran through the veins of every orsimer. "And are all dwarves perfectly trustworthy? Have you even met an elf before?" Her tongue lashed out like a viper, and Fíli had the decency to look ashamed.

"I – I'm sorry. But it still wasn't fair for ye to compare me to a – an elf." Fíli hedged, the words coming out of his mouth like he was passing kidney stones.

"Where I come from, all long-lived races have elvish roots. I must apologize as well." Ahkmar clasped her hands before her, studying the raised stitching on the thumb seam of her left glove. After a beat of silence, she remembered the reason for their argument in the first place. "But regardless of your insult, you've only managed to weaken your own stance. When I was less than a quarter your age, I cleared out an entire camp of bandits by myself. And now? You have much to learn before you find yourself at my level."

"Teach me, Master Orsimer."

* * *

Ahkmar wondered if perhaps her life-quest was to mold Fíli into a warrior smith after her own heart. She certainly hoped not. She would be old and grey before that happened, an insult to her orcish pride. The lad wasn't a terrible fighter, but from what she had observed from his actions before the injury his style grossly leant on only fighting one opponent at a time. In a true battle, that was almost never the case. She had to cure him of that.

But she had to cure him of his leg, first.

Ahkmar spat out the leaf that she had been chewing on in disgust, looking at the small cut she had made on the back of her hand. No change. She popped a berry into her mouth, repeating the process. No luck. Damn it, why had she relied overmuch on unfortunate bandits and herbalists instead of raising her own alchemy skill?

Taking a swig of water to clear her palate, the orc reached down and plucked another plant. She stared at it dubiously. It looked like a common weed with its small white flowers and short, delicate green body. It grew in bunches, too. Shrugging, she placed the plant in her mouth and bit down. Her fangs bruised the skin, releasing a liquid that made her tongue tingle. Oddly, the plant seemed to resonate with the pool of magicka, deep within her. Just when she was starting to feel uncomfortable with the feeling, she looked down at her hand. The blood was there but, after rubbing at the site with her thumb, she found no wound. Only the faintest pink line of new skin remained.

Ahkmar smirked. "Well, that solves that." She pulled up a few handfuls of the magick grass, muttering to herself. "But I don't believe the lad has much magicka, if any at all. You'd better cooperate." The orsimer frowned sternly at the flowers.

They didn't answer, of course.

* * *

Ahkmar pursed her lips, crushing the weed with a mortar and pestle. Usually alchemy required more than one ingredient to work, so she mixed a generous spoonful of salt with the solution. Salt, as she well knew, had properties that helped fortify health regeneration. She boiled a teaspoon of the solution into a tea and carried it to her charge's room.

"Sit up Whelp, and drink this."

The boy, roused from his nap, sipped at the warm reddish liquid. "It's salty and bitter." He groused, sticking out his tongue at the taste.

"It's medicine. And you'd better drink it all." Ahkmar spoke in a dry tone, crossing her arms.

Fíli pouted, but complied. He knew better than to argue with a healer.

"If you're up to it, I can teach you how to wrap hilts." Ahkmar offered after a moment, studying his face for signs that the concoction was working.

"Yes, Master Orsimer!" Fíli eagerly blurted, placing the emptied cup on a side table.

Ahkmar smiled at his enthusiasm, pulling a small steel dagger and a spool of wire from a bag at her waist. Sitting on the bed next to her charge, she let him feel the pliability of the wire. "It's a tin alloy, a softer metal than the steel that makes up the hilt right now." Placing the end of the wire just below the cross-guard, she began wrapping it, covering the base. "You have to make sure that the wire is snug against itself, to avoid pinching." She instructed.

Fíli nodded seriously, studying her fingers.

The orsimer peered at the young dwarf out of the corner of her eye. There was something determined in this dwarf, something that made her enjoy teaching him. The thought of turning him down gave her a sour taste in her mouth, despite the risks. She breathed out, her torso compressing around her empty lungs. She would train the boy, in combat and in smithing. She had been a hermit for too long, waiting for her quest. Perhaps opening up to this young sprog was the first step to discovering the purpose for which Akatosh had sent her to this realm.

* * *

 **Sorry for the wait, folks. Trying to speed things up a little bit so we can get into the quest action sooner rather than later. Thank you for the readers that have stuck with this story (even with my sporadic update schedule). I hit a wall at a point in December, where I couldn't think of how to connect ideas (I don't want to make the story seem rushed).**

 **A question: Am I giving Ahkmar too many skills? (healing, combat, smithing). The dragonborn is supposed to be a little OP, compared to the average Skyrim resident, but I'm trying to nerf some skills so that she doesn't come across as a Mary-Sue. How's my driving?**

 **A small note that I find amusing: I used Minecraft to map out Ahkmar's cottage and a bit of the surrounding area, so that I can try to be more consistent.**

 **Happy Valentine's Day! (or Singles Awareness Day, whatever you celebrate) Your encouraging words and reviews have made writing this story a joy, so thank you. Hopefully we'll have another update in the next couple of weeks.**

 **-Kohlii**


	14. Contract

In hindsight, Ahkmar probably should have done more testing on the magicka grass. She assumed that anything that worked on her would have the same effect on anyone else. She was wrong. The tea probably helped speed up his natural healing by a small amount, but for whatever reason – Ahkmar blamed his nonexistent magicka stores – there was little to no perceivable change in his wound the next day. Or the day after. Thankfully, it didn't seem to have an adverse effect on his health (he was just a bit thirstier than usual, but that she blamed on the salt).

A few weeks later, when Dori arrived with the caravan, Fíli could hobble about with the aid of a crutch, his bone mostly healed, but still rather tender. Dori, of course, was not pleased.

"Fíli, lad, what happened to ye?" Dori exclaimed once he saw the boy.

Fíli sheepishly grinned, taking a bit of his weight off of the crutch. "Ye should have seen the other guy!"

Ahkmar snorted in amusement, flinching when the noise made Dori turn his attention to her. "Ye were supposed to protect him, Master Orsimer."

Ahkmar dipped her head, slightly, ashamed of the false sense of security that had blinded her. "Some bandits came while I was away, hunting. They got the jump on young Fíli, but I returned soon enough to keep them from finishing the job."

"And what about next time?" Dori's face was stone.

Ahkmar swallowed audibly, shifting her weight. "I have plans to teach Fíli combat training, so there won't be a next time." She straightened as she went on with her tirade. "His skillset is good for duels, where he would only be fighting against one opponent, but in the real world you're often outnumbered. A group of mediocre bandits can take down an unbalanced champion. That's why the whelp needs to learn how to face multiple opponents."

Dori still looked hesitant. "And what of the apprenticeship?"

"If you're asking whether or not he passed my test, I'd have to say he did." Fíli whooped audibly, making the corners of Ahkmar's lips pull up in a slight smile. "But I cannot teach him how to make weapons if he doesn't know how to use them properly. The best blacksmith is also an expert warrior. As he learns combat, he will learn how to apply it to his craft."

Dori scowled, still. "But there are many dwarves back home tha' could teach the lad combat. Why should he learn it here, from ye?"

Ahkmar sought out Dwalin's gaze. He had been silent throughout the exchange, a quiet anger in his eyes as he examined Fíli's wounded posture. "I think Master Dwalin would agree that I am a proficient foe in combat." His angry eyes turned to her, but he nodded. "And I have much experience with unbalanced fights. In my youth, I did a good amount of mercenary work, clearing out bandit dens and the like."

At the word 'mercenary', the dwarves all took on a constipated look.

Ahkmar ignored this and continued, "And I can teach him my way of blacksmithing, if he remains here. Something you dwarves cannot do."

"Ye would have us leave the lad with a _mercenary_?" Dori bit out. He opened his mouth to go on, but was interrupted.

"I-I want to stay." Fíli squeaked, his voice small.

"What was tha', Laddie?" Dori's flashing eyes turned to focus on the blonde dwarf.

"I want to stay and learn from Master Orsimer." The second time, he seemed to have gained more confidence. He withered slightly under the elder dwarf's stare, but sucked in his lips and straightened his back after a moment. "It doesn't matter if he was a mercenary in his past. He's a warrior-smith now. And that's what I want to be, so I _need_ to train under Master Orsimer. And I'm not takin' 'no' for an answer."

Ahkmar felt her lip quirk up a little, expression faltering at the odd loyalty the little whelp had showed her. She leveled the dark holes of her helmet at Dori, using her height and broad shoulders to her advantage.

Dori sighed, managing to look both worriedly and distastefully at Fíli's crutch. "I suppose ye can stay, Laddie. You're a grown dwarf, after all, even though ye'll always be a child to me eyes." His eyes hardened then, fists creaking as he clenched them. "But don't come crying to me if this doesn't turn out."

"Noted," Fíli gulped, surreptitiously scuttling backwards a step.

Ahkmar's smirk bled into a full-blown smile, and she relaxed her intimidating posture. "I will do my best to impart onto this lad the fullness of my craft." She promised the white-haired dwarf before her. "As well as increase his skill in combat, especially against multiple enemies."

Dori pursed his lips, still slightly suspicious. "Do ye mind if we draw up a contract about that?"

"Not at all. I expect this contract will be in a language we both can read?" The verdant orc had learned from previous dealings with Dori that dwarven contracts often were written entirely in Khuzdul.

"Aye, 'twill be." Dori grumbled, giving her the evil eye. "Give me a few hours to write it out."

"Of course." Ahkmar nodded, "Do you want some ale while you work? Mead?"

"Mead, thank ye Master Orsimer".

"Not at all, Master Dori."

Ahkmar collected a brace of mugs from the other room, filling them with healthy portions of honeyed mead. The barrel she was on was imported from The Green Dragon inn, and it was quickly becoming a new addiction.

Dori and Dwalin huddled over the document, Fíli looking over their shoulders and offering a comment every once and again, but otherwise letting his seniors handle the matter. They muttered their thanks when Ahkmar offered them the sweet alcoholic drink, but ultimately ignored her as they continued their plotting.

Ahkmar busied herself with feeding the livestock and taking stock of her raw materials while she waited on their draft. Once it was done, she suggested her own changes. After a bit of haggling, they agreed that Fíli would stay her apprentice for a minimum of three years, upon which a reassessment would be made. He would receive an apprentice's allowance in return for his work as an assistant (Ahkmar was assured that the amount was the standard for blacksmith apprentices, and after a few calculations, she determined that it was fair). Also, she would train him in fighting multiple opponents, focusing on dual blades, but increasing his proficiency in other kinds of weaponry as well so that he can become better at designing them.

As Ahkmar watched the carriage roll away, loaded with a few new weapons crates, she sighed. This was certainly an unexpected happening. But, she thought as her eyes turned towards her newly officiated apprentice, perhaps it was not an unwanted one.

Fíli offered her a smile that threatened to split his face in two, supporting himself on his crutch. "Well I suppose yer stuck with me now, Master Orsimer!"

Ahkmar scowled slightly at his cat-in-the-cream smirk. "Aye, I suppose I am." Straightening her form with a sigh, she walked over to him and mussed up his hair.

"Hey!" Fíli yelped, frantically taming his mane with his short fingers.

The orcish womer chuckled, crossing her arms and peering at the dwarf through the eyeholes in her helm. "Hey, let's go somewhere after you're a bit better; get out of this house. Maybe put in some combat training or pick up some rare materials while we're at it. What do you say, Whelp?"

Fíli's face lit up like a sunbeam, his tangled hair forgotten. "Aye!" If his leg had been better, she swore that he would have jumped like a show pony. As it was, he visibly squirmed in delight, knuckles whitening around his grip on the crutch.

It was decided then, Ahkmar nodded. She'd been getting a bit stir-crazy herself, shut up in the manor with only routine to guide her. And nothing to do – nothing to _hunt_. She needed to kill something soon or her bloodlust would consume her. The bandits were a good deterrent, but she needed some real challenge, without worrying overmuch about saving her ward.

If she wasn't careful, she might slip up and reveal herself to her smallish blonde student. And wouldn't that be a shame – her only entertainment down the drain, and probably a witch hunt culminating in her needing to move house. She pouted childishly, thankful for the mask that so thoroughly shrouded her face. No, she'd be extra careful now that he had become a semi-permanent fixture in her life. And a possible weak link in her meticulously thought out plan to remain anonymous. _Oh Akatosh,_ she looked up to the clear blue skies. _I do hope that you're going to give me my quest soon._

* * *

 **Aaaaaand there's another chapter! Thanks folks! Probably going to be doing a bit of a time-skip sequence soonish.**

 **To all my reviewers who gave me suggestions on how to make Ahkmar a well-rounded character: Thank you so much! I always worry about making my characters too powerful, since I tend to like them just a bit much. However, after reading your reviews I feel like I have done an alright job so far and I now have a few guidelines to keep Ahkmar on the right track in the future.**

 **A note to a few of my reviewers that were disturbed about the incorrect lore that I was using: As I mentioned before, I am bending the Elder Scrolls lore just a tad to make dwemer seem more like dwarves to Ahkmar. Yes, they were a mountain-dwelling elvish race, but if you've seen the majestically bearded carvings that they have in and around their abandoned cities, you might agree that they look fairly dwarvish. My bended canon makes them a race of shorter stature than men – just a bit smaller than Bretons – but not as short as the Middle Earth dwarves. The elves of Middle Earth are generally taller than men – as are Altmer – so I feel comfortable with comparing ME elves with Altmer – at least in Ahkmar's eyes. (ME elves have a golden glow, and Altmer have golden skin).**

 **Thank you again for all your support, and I will see you again in the next chapter.**

 **Ps: If you play WoW, send me an in-game-mail! My main alliance character is Illida-Lightbringer. I'd love to play with you sometime ;)**

 **-Kohlii**


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